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Skip to main content Find and share the perfect poems. A few days after solstice, I follow bobcat tracks to the lake. The moss is glowing, the water all thawed, the cold a kind of wholly coat. A willow, bald without its leaves, towers over its frail reflection. I sit on a bench, begin to read old journals. Then I close my eyes and cringe before that girl, the younger me, makes another bad decision.
Saturday Poetry This weeks Saturday Poetry, matched with mobile photography/art is entitled ‘A Cloud of Drench Bearing Down’ by Emily Pittinos. She is a poet, author, and winner of the 2020 Iowa Poetry Prize. The recipient of a 2022 literature fellowship from the Idaho Commission on the Arts, she is a visiting lecturer in creative writing at Boise State University in Boise, where she lives.
Diagonal paths quadrisect a square acre white as the page in February. From the soil of this basic geometry ash, elm, and maple flourish like understandings whose bare logics are visible, understandings the theorem has allowed. Between roam bodies of the sensible world: people, dogs, all those lovers of the material and immaterial illumined, as under working hypotheses, by sodium bulbs whose costly inefficiencies Los Angeles and Philadelphia have apparently moved on from.
On the night of the Michigan v. Michigan State football game, I rounded the corner onto Elm Street to discover you sitting on an up-ended trash bin with your buddy smashing beer bottles on the pavement. With the rest of Ann Arbor sleeping off an afternoon of face paint and victory, we were the only ones around, and through your own drunken haze you shouted, “Show me your tits!” I tell this like a funny story sometimes.
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