by Anna Ciummo 


Both are not arrived 

yet. Yet there drop the first 

and half-dry tears, 

ready for the making 

of themselves. 

A tap towards their perfect 

sifted sands could make things 

even flatter—too broken 

to be swallowed alone.

The hill and a worry arise—

that of their dampening 

somnolence. The slow 

movements continue: their glances 

at one another, the question 

of mirrors, the question of the question 

of mirrors. Now and now, 

there is their shift in preparing, 

looking, of packing grain to glass, 

the dropping away of time. 

They cannot watch this. 

They have themselves 

figured already, elsewhere, 

blooming at one other 

in their clear-cased fallout. 

Ready now, to spend the rest

on things that divide them, 

then turn them over again. 

back to University & College Poetry Prizes