Winter 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2005 |

Beginning with a Line from NPR

Birds are returning to the city, and not just pigeons. Last week, on the steps that flame the Met, we saw a couple: glossed purple epithets to the morning we'd mustered together. Obscure wing bars. They house inside cement—martins, wide-gaped, thin. Then through changed air they forge circles in a glide, like starlings shoot straight, without a rise or fall. A martin fliesdirect. Unsure where to sit, what to say: we are most ourselves in silence. The boy, alone, dumb, pretends nothing in my story. Plucked clean from human form, wrapped in silk, he's thrown back into a clapping tree: the tree smokes; flick. The kerchief's done its trick and he's a bird, put out to live. Just once I wore a mask to breathe. Sucked air into the drowned or almost drowned lace of our daughter's heart. The beat skimmed clear across the screen. Am I anywhere you need? These birds are called escapes.

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Hovering

By Joanna Goodman

Birds are returning to the city, and not just pigeons. Last week, on the steps that flame the Met, we saw a couple: glossed purple epithets to the morning we'd […]

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