Summer 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 3/4 Poetry |

Driftwood

                    Have I lied to myself about art?             Everything can't be art. Bird not bird            but driftwood roughed up by the sea,            forgotten, found, by one who desires           a gnarled reminder of form, and flight.    I consider my own similes—gardens, trees,                an orchard still rooted, light marine    in the blown air, fruit drunken on the swirl,       like everything that leads up to a legend                     of leaving. Poor driftwood, poor                    bird, with your premise of wings.

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Carol Frost has published eleven books of poems, most recently Honeycomb, which won the 2010 Florida Book Award. Trilogy is forthcoming in 2014 from Tupelo Press. She is the Theodore Bruce and Barbara Lawrence Alfond Professor of English at Rollins College.

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                    Have I lied to myself about art?             Everything can't be art. Bird not bird            but driftwood roughed up by the sea,            forgotten, found, by one who desires           a gnarled reminder […]

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