The jumpers wake us after landing, laughing & packing their parachutes into tight bundles in the sloping field outside our window. So we turn
is flat and I don’t have a jack or a tire iron, or a clue how to use one except maybe to kill a
As I left the boathouse, from a work meeting, a pack of ten-year olds there with their class ran past me in lifejackets one
…I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read / there where you have landed… —Adrienne Rich I