Nov/Dec 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 6 Poetry |

Summer in the Ordinary

Eppur si muove The iris wavers as the fox trots by, mornings in paradise, or what pretends by any other name to smell of meat. What were we then that we did not become? The water touched the image of the beast; old factories of iron muted the plain. They were of no consequence, those sun-dark daysbefore the word fell hard upon the ear. The Indian corn, I mean the poppy fields, carpets of color sown and yet not sown, ideas that rose to metal and to brick.That too was passion. Naked, in need of need,we had heard of passion. We knew ourselves that first first morning when we woke, and died. 

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Photo of William Logan
William Logan’s most recent book of poetry is Rift of Light (Penguin, 2017); his most recent book of criticism, Broken Ground: Poetry and the Demon of History (Columbia University Press, 2021). He teaches at the University of Florida.

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