American Culture · American Literature · Aubade · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Amber Flora Thomas

Aubade I know my leaving in the breakfast table mess.    Bowl spills into bowl: milk and bran, bread crust    crumbled. You push me back into bed. More “honey” and “baby.” Breath you tell my ear circles inside me,    curls a damp wind and runs the circuit    of my limbs. I interrogate… Continue reading Amber Flora Thomas

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American Culture · American Literature · Aubade · Classic · Contemporary · Online Anthology · Online Series · Periodical · Poetry

Greg Wrenn

Ode, Aubade And the morning, too, falters, struggles to assert itself, burn through the errant fog, the pines, scorch the whole grove of trees and crooked streetlamps. Your body’s turning, turning beside me in my bed’s— sprawl? Badlands? You sigh on my neck. Startled, the crick and sob buried inside it like a pulsar behind… Continue reading Greg Wrenn

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African-American Culture · African-American Literature · Aubade · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Major Jackson

Beyond the limits of myself, there is you, a wind-wave of fading light on a square of cottage pane, a final mix of golden prairie in my mind. I am the impoverished heir of blackened gum quarters, your crosswalk & roofline of foul pigeons. Dear Sibilant Stir & Kick: see that tall grass on the… Continue reading Major Jackson

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American Literature · Aubade · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Richard Foerster

         of dawn: each pane laliqued, fern-etched                  on the emery-wheel of December. Brief, that film, already burning, the evaporate fact          I’d stay lost in longer, the far-fetched                  dream the sun now filches like a thief. And so the windows fill with day’s contusions,          a slurry of routine, hours stretching                  toward… Continue reading Richard Foerster

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Aubade · British Culture · Classic · Contemporary · English Literature · Poetry · The Movement

Philip Larkin

Aubade I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what’s really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid… Continue reading Philip Larkin

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