When I asked Robert Wynne to join me as co-editor of a new poetry anthology, his immediate response was When do we start? Only
Workers have stumbled on an old road under Pisa’s tower, leaning now with millennial seriousness of purpose. In restauro and Chuiso, the signs read,
That church on Rue de Rivoli we entered to get out of the rain someone invisible playing the organ high notes out of tune
In Missouri there are towns named for saints, for trees, for bad water. There is a cave named for the devil, and cities conjugated