Winter 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2014 |


   —Wild West? Colorless birds lift up from the snarl and tangle of chaparral. Twice    I've known the speed of love to exactly equal the speed of life itself. Not so much    the saguaro's predictability, but the more ignorable vegetation. All the smaller    varieties of almost that, before living without them, we thought we'd die without. In these parts,    reptilian, autoerotic, that's how the winter works, when it comes, if it does come. I keep    a space for tenderness. The Wild West isn't dead yet, it seems, no; only harder to find. Is it    any wonder—were we not a wonder—seeing how the skies here, how they give everything away too soon?

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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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