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Beth Bachmann

No shepherds. No nymphs. Maybe just one: the girl the fawn strips like a fisherman’s rose. Death turns its mouth red. It can no longer lie in the lilies. Not on my watch. The lake is filthy with silver fish sticky with leeches. Lovesick, I flick a feather into the water. No stones. Only the… Continue reading Beth Bachmann

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British Culture · English Literature · Excerpt · Fragment · Online Review · Passage · Periodical · Poetry

Philip Larkin

Truly, though our element is time, We are not suited to the long perspectives Open at each instant of our lives. They link us to our losses: worse, They show us what we have as it once was, Blindingly undiminished, just as though By acting differently, we could have kept it so. — Philip Larkin,… Continue reading Philip Larkin

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American Culture · American Literature · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Online Journal · Online Magazine · Online Review · Passage · Periodical · Poetry · Southern Literature

Allen Braden

Then the bees come, more than you’d ever expect, whirring from sprig to sprig with such meticulous and random urgency you might think they understand each blossom begins to die upon its opening which has been hurried along by your own desire. — Allen Braden, from “Lilacs and Desires,” Louisiana Literature (vol. 34, no. 1,… Continue reading Allen Braden

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Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Classic · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Online Magazine · Online Review · Periodical · Poetry

Mark Strand

It was afternoon but I was sure there was moonlight trapped under the plates. You were standing outside the window, saying, “Lift them up.” When I lifted them up the sea was dark, the wind was from the west, and you were gone. — Mark Strand, from “Seven Days,” The Georgia Review. Vol. 29, No.… Continue reading Mark Strand

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Contemporary · Online Magazine · Online Review · Periodical · Poetry

Mary Ruefle

Night falls and the empty intimacy of the whole world fills my heart to frothing. The past has trudged to this one spot and falls into the stream, its flashlight in its mouth. Ancient tears beneath the surface rise and scatter like carp, while an ivory hairpin floats away like a loose tooth going back… Continue reading Mary Ruefle

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