BEATRIX GATES
The Card, the Note, the Envelope
It was not a circle.
It was broken, raw . . .
Weekly poems, selected by the editors. Featuring new work as well as poems from our rich archives.
It was not a circle.
It was broken, raw . . .
so find the vein
beat it with a point
this is the first barnfire
in history
The bird howling outside my window reminds me
of a city burning to cinders
what is normal
is what the body can bear, repeated
until it becomes emergency
What I study to be less
studied and more known
At the end of the fountain, there isn’t space
for the birds to turn their long bodies.
I am not as hungry as
how a river feeds and feeds another
The papers moaned, “Alone, alone . . .”
I want love & not fear but these are the same.