Jan/Feb 2021 • Vol. XLIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 4, 2021 |

From this bench I like to call my bench I sit

From this bench I like to call my bench I sit and watch my tree which is not my tree, no one’s tree, the quiet! Except for barn swallows, which are not loud birds, how many exclamation points can I get away with in this life, who was it who said only two or maybe seven — Bishop? Marianne Moore? Either way the world is capable of quiet if everyone stays indoors and no jet planes, my tree, it just stands there in the middle of everything in a meadow on the bay looking what Barthes called “adorable,” then I drove the mile west to the sea, which had decided to be loud that day, the sunset, oh, ragged and bloody as a piece of raw meat in the jaws of some big golden carnivore, and I cried a little, for none of it! none of it will last!

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By Diane Seuss

From this bench I like to call my bench I sit and watch my tree which is not my tree, no one’s tree, the quiet! Except for barn swallows, which […]

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