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  4/5-4/9
  #10-#14
          4/5/10 #10
The Partial Explanation
         Charles Simic

     Seems like a long time
  Since the waiter took my order.
     Grimy little luncheonette,
     The snow falling outside.

 Seems like it has grown darker
 Since I last heard the kitchen door
           Behind my back
          Since I last noticed
     Anyone pass on the street.

      A glass of ice-water
        Keeps me company
    At this table I chose myself
          Upon entering.

         And a longing,
         Incredible longing
           To eavesdrop
        On the conversation
             Of cooks.
              4/6/10 #11
      Remora, Remora
              Thomas Lux
            Clinging to the shark
                 is a sucker shark,
                attached to which
           and feeding off its crumbs
                 is one still tinier,
                    inch or two,
             and on top of that one,
         one the size of a nick of gauze;
               smaller and smaller
     (moron, idiot, imbecile, nincompoop)
                until on top of that
      is the last, a microdot sucker shark,
a filament’s tip – with a heartbeat – sliced off,
                 and the great sea
                all around feeding
              his host and thus him.
                   He’s too small
               to be eaten himself
           (though some things swim
              with open mouths) so
     he just rides along in the blue current,
       the invisible point of the pyramid,
            the top beneath all else.
                       4/7/10 #12
                           Tour
                       Carol Snow

           **Today's very short poem reminds us
          there are two ways of looking at things.
              Note: This is such a short poem,
                  it should be read twice.




Near a shrine in Japan he'd swept the
  path
and then placed camellia blossoms there.
Or -- we had no way of knowing -- he'd
  swept
the path between fallen camellias.
                                        4/8/10 #13
                                        After Us
                                      Connie Wanek
                     ** This poem creates a mysterious atmosphere.
Rain is falling through the roof.
   And all that prospered under the sun,
   the books that opened in the morning
   and closed at night, and all day
   turned their pages to the light;
                                               the sketches of boats and strong forearms
                                                            and clever faces, and of fields
                                                        and barns, and of a bowl of eggs,
                                                                and lying across the piano
                                                     the silver stick of a flute; everything
invented and imagined,
    everything whispered and sung,
    all silenced by cold rain.
                                                        The sky is the color of gravestones.
                                                          The rain tastes like salt, and rises
                                                           in the streets like a ruinous tide.
                                                   We spoke of millions, of billions of years.
                                                                      We talked and talked.
Then a drop of rain fell
   into the sound hole of the guitar, another
   onto the unmade bed. And after us,
   the rain will cease or it will go on falling,
   even upon itself.
                                   4/9/10 #14
                             Before She Died
                                  Karen Chase

When I look at the sky now, I look at it for you.
  As if with enough attention, I could
 take it in for you.

With all the leaves gone almost from
   the trees, I did not walk briskly through
   the field.

Late today with my dog Wool, I lay down in the
upper field, he panting and aged, me looking at
the blue. Leaning on him, I wondered how finite
 these lustered days seem to you, A stand of
hemlock across the lake catches my eye. It will take
 a long time to know how it is for you. Like a dog's
 lifetime -- long -- multiplied by sevens.

				
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posted:10/21/2011
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