Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

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I can't give the king nothing but eggs, I thought waking up. Deeper you slept beneath the predawn light,   barely a half-lumen all sponged up around you by the white, white bed. Your hair, I swear, is golden   and your face-bones so fine, but you were the grave-mound into which I could never weep enough just then.   Why here why now why us granted this fragile happiness? I swore I'd use it scrupulously, if only he'd spare your life.

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Michael Ryan is director of the MFA Program in Poetry at the University of California–Irvine. His books have won the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award and the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize, among many other awards. His new book of poems, This Morning, will be published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in March.

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I can't give the king nothing but eggs, I thought waking up. Deeper you slept beneath the predawn light,   barely a half-lumen all sponged up around you by the […]

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I can't give the king nothing but eggs, I thought waking up. Deeper you slept beneath the predawn light,   barely a half-lumen all sponged up around you by the […]

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