(photo by Peter McLean-Browne) 

Featured Poem:

Dream at the Death of James Wright 
The wind is rolling the buffalo down,
the wind is shining and sharpening the buffalo
and rolling them down.
The sheep have already scattered
toward the forest, sheep are streaming
along the stained edges of the forest,
but the wind is rolling the buffalo down.
We have built no shelter for them,
we have put up no corral.
They don’t know enough to
come together, bind their black fur
together, sit out the storm.
I see one huge one struggling
inside a lantern of grasses.
The wind is rolling the buffalo down,
shining and sharpening them
and rolling them down.


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Chimes:
selected shorter poems

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