Poem of the Week

The shroud has no pockets, the northern Italians say.

Let go, live your life,

                                          the grave has no sunny corners—

Deadfall and windfall, the aphoristic undertow

Of high water, deep snow in the hills,

Everything's benediction, bright wingrush of grange.

Spring moves through the late May heat

                                                                          as though someone were poling it.