Poems of the Week: 2026
I was a stranger to most people, myself incriminated.
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The shorebirds bank toward the west—flashing too fast to decipher.
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There are more borders between us than there have been years.
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You go out larking with a neatly mustached man.
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how wonderful all the turbulence and greeting and ash in my wine
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When you break them they barely change, except, at last, they stop.
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Everything about us, for better or worse, we make ourselves.
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