Back to Issue One. 




The most birds I’ve ever
seen. What lives

the longest? Superlatives are only sometimes
useful. A sea of open beaks and wing. Flip
the quick one, melt the meticulous. It’s

a sort of trick that color,
that sun-in-a cup, and the rush

has no signature. How can we measure
the velocity, the distance from one trestle to another—

leaving the ground is different. Banking

and rising all together, there’s no barre
at which to stand; the sandbank shifts
underwater and the clouds move correspondingly

above. Watch the birds: the sky parts and remakes itself

almost cruelly while we wait for the next
instruction: now dance now droop now rest.

Charlotte Boulay‘s poems have appeared in Slate, Boston Review, Crazyhorse, FIELD, The Massachusetts Review, and other journals. She teaches writing at The College of New Jersey.