Winter 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 1 Poetry |


I. I miss the sea. I miss the storms that stopped there. How much is luck, again opening, and luck shutting itself down, what we never expected, or only sort of did, or should have? The windfalls of my mistakes sweetly rot beneath me. Two hawks lift—headed north—from my highest bough. II. So he's seen the blizzard that the future looks like, and gotten lost, a little. All the same— he gathers the honeysuckle in his arms, as for a lover. Cloud of bees, of yellow. His chest, blurring bright with it. Who's to say brutality's what he'll be wearing, when he goes? III. There's a light that estrangement, more often than not, briefly leaves behind it.        Then the dark—blue and damned, erotic: here, where—done at last with flashing like power itself at first, then what power comes to—the field lays down its winded swords. —My head; beside yours.

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Carl Phillips
Carl Phillips is the author of thirteen books of poems, most recently Reconnaissance (FSG, 2015). He teaches at Washington University in St. Louis.

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