Section III
2022
Two Poems dan murphy
Man A cloud bursts over Broadway Street. Through a car window, everything’s blurred— traffic lights diffuse a rolling glow, storefronts fog to a collection of impressions—save a man ambling slowly, clear through the strafing rain, a Boston Herald held above his head, news bleeding down his face, all those story lines that more or less the world signed off on surfacing blackly in the path of his shoes.
No Sledding Through the Lilacs Even as the icy crust of winter was finally breaking— a strangely warm day in early March— even as I enjoyed the ease my shoulders felt, a breeze through my t-shirt, I couldn’t help but read the sign on the steep and moguled slope of the Arboretum’s bald, idyllic hill— bare lilacs like flags on a slalom— and hope for a brief but substantial snow.
The Lowell Review
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