Spring 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 2014 |

On the Day the World Is Forecast to End and Does Not

So night's been poured and drunk. The migrained clouds stumble and blanch. An ornery sky. A dumb sun-slant on dingy snow. On my own stoop, a Christmas wreath loses its skin—what dread in the soft sleet-sound of needles settling on a mat.        But light touches the porch— the street stretches itself. A junco cleans its breast in such light. And it dips, it swoops, not into ruin—moves to a truck stacked with cut trees, itself moving on some fated or unfated errand. The trees—what gilding will cometo the trees. Not into ruin. Not into ruin now.

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Hibernal

By Emily Wilson

So night's been poured and drunk. The migrained clouds stumble and blanch. An ornery sky. A dumb sun-slant on dingy snow. On my own stoop, a Christmas wreath loses its […]

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