
Poetry
Loaf
Snow sieves over the lawnlike an angel’s torn eiderdownminus the comfort. I’m shaking packets of Fleischmann’sover warm water. “Set the yeastaside,” the family recipe says.
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Snow sieves over the lawnlike an angel’s torn eiderdownminus the comfort. I’m shaking packets of Fleischmann’sover warm water. “Set the yeastaside,” the family recipe says.

Overnight,new toadstoolsshoulder throughsodden grassthe way sorrowsemerge, oneafter another. Traveler,in a season doublyscented by windfallapples and creepingrot, please sidestepthe lone wet leaf,beaded with dewlike tiny mirrors.Those
For the Director, to the tune of “The Cup of Mourning.” Dawn, in her tattered veils, wafts one last breath over the pond like a
Such dubious tutors: the upwardly mobile drone whose instinct sinks his career with a single sting; the flim-flam deer tick, upended, six legs waving, with