Back to Issue Thirty-Three



A tiny spider crawls across the lit screen
of a laptop: what does it make of the world?
Men chisel flagstone and form a stepped patio;
soon a “for sale” sign will hang at the street.
Sleeping on my back, I snore then turn
to my side; in the morning you hum before
showering. In the afternoon, long lines
of rain vanish before striking the ground,
but we are not distraught; a black morel
rises in a garden; orange blossoming daylilies
arc near a half-spherical stone fountain.
Water murmurs in the basin before it spills
over the edge; before morning spills over
the edge, sunrise makes lakes between clouds.


Arthur Sze’s tenth book, Sight Lines (Copper Canyon, 2019), was selected for the 2019 National Book Award in Poetry. He also recently received the ‘T’ Space 8th Annual Poetry Award and will read at ‘T’ Space in Rhinebeck, NY this summer.


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