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Sarah Gridley

By This Poet


Weather Eye Open

Besides the toss and drag of shells are you shown no proof
as to time lost here?

Same stamp
                               on every morning. Tattered glass
at rub on sunblind margin. No island roofs or goat-skinned

My stars
	      but you are travel-rank!

Cracked with offering.  Your hands bear
what? bow-spray? mast-scrape?
                                    Keel, stinging under silver weight.

      what boats unloads your night? Why do the waves
keep you in their shattered cloak? Eyes each upon you
      creaking pilot, pilot, pilot?

William James, Henry James

Great gift of purple apples! The distant stars, the far-in sugars
of their skins. With light in certain
shades of the world, autumn of limited
use in the world, I could go
for a day
in the word canteen.

In the world outside
I have yet to put in. It looks as though the bridges
are standing in aquarelle. You know propitious
comes of going-forward. Where the horse in mind
unfastens earth, fastens thirst
to a treelike task.