Winter 1998 • Vol. XX No. 1 Poetry |

Raising the Blinds

1 All day, by the window, I've been looking To fathom such intricacies as these: Hail, sleet, freezing rain, the heavy Welter of flakes, and the way each Complements the other which seemed At first a blur of the same emotion-- Misery or grief--some little alley With its trash cans and garages, rutted Snow, the brownout of the lamps. And those figures down there, hurrying Home or from it, lost beneath their Umbrellas' tautened cloth, how the puddles Each passes gleam like scraps of sky. Cold yesterday and rain glazed Every surface, cocooning the branches, Slicking down the damp rooftop slates. By the time it stopped I was already Asleep. I was fast in my own waters. Wasn't it Alfred Stieglitz who sought To frame within his viewfinder Those equivalents of inner weather, The clouds he'd dredge from the waters Of the developer's vat? Dark, penumbral, Or riddled with such light as filled them Only for a time. Or, like today, A gray relentless drizzle, as though The private li

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After

By Robert Gibb

1 All day, by the window, I've been looking To fathom such intricacies as these: Hail, sleet, freezing rain, the heavy Welter of flakes, and the way each Complements the […]

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