oregonpoetry

Baby, It’s Cold Outside (a Vivianne sonnet variation) Barbara Blanks As embryos we each explore the wall of womb that holds us. It’s the first place joy is felt—mom’s heartbeat like a lullaby.   Cocooned in touch, that’s how we interact. We’re chastised just as soon as we can crawl or walk. Just look! Hands off!

Arachnidæa: Line Drawings Stephen Pollock I. Extravagance at dawn  — your finest threads are strung with pearls and you, a brooch with a clasp. Magnify the shiny spheres to divine that each conceals a miniature, an image of struggling wings, of life undone. Pass at the critical angle, and they flash and snap in the

Mind Gloss David Hedges Mind in its purest play is like some bat That beats about in caverns all alone, Contriving by a kind of senseless wit Not to conclude against a wall of stone. —Richard Wilbur, from “Mind” Mind in its purest play is like some bat That magically connects with knuckleballs. No matter