Winter 1993 • Vol. XV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1993 |

Wash, Early Monday

Truncated piles and half-matched pairs of rubbery socks, with running holes, pale prune colored pants and T-shirts shrinking by the round good fortune of growing. A scramble of texts. It's unimaginable why they cannot stretch over even a fraction of a summer day. Sheets and pillowcases. Crumpled wonders hushed by quiet grief, cauled awe, secrets, hearts, our collected hearts, dropped lightly on the floor. Gauzy sunlight pools in the flowery cotton crags. The other shades down. Alongside bright napkins. On the red and white squares stains chart changes made imperceptibly. Suddenly they rise in a face. An hour of ending eclipse. Of a great, silent, very small language. My arms bracket wet, dug-out depths, all close to skins. Churned-up, the mass almost sweetens: its waves of color held like an infant, whose milky smellflowers a sense of deep, wordless, physical possession. Clothes pins' stiff legs perch like finches outside the window. Like a river, in come

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At Three or Four

By Wallis Wilde-Menozzi

Truncated piles and half-matched pairs of rubbery socks, with running holes, pale prune colored pants and T-shirts shrinking by the round good fortune of growing. A scramble of texts. It's […]

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