POEMS
SOPHIE CABOT BLACK
Lost
I am still here between the sun
That rises and the one that sets. To remain
Or go on. Which means
to
talk,
To remember wind, words for what happened,
How I could no longer figure you
From trees. And a turning of weather so quiet
I grew ashamed. [ shou ld have stayed with the horse
Huddled under ledge, but to go back now
Means
to
come upon myself. Whereas
to
be lost
Is
to
keep a rriving. And so a trail becomes
All trails, perhaps a way out. Which is
to
say I am a lready
Moving toward voices, each bend of the road
Made worse by knowing what I tell them
Will be different than what I've told myself.
JOHN BENSKO
Bayberry
Find them in September, the white
dust on them like the finest snow
fallen before its time.
Find them near the sea, and to water
return them. From the boiling pot
skim the li ght green wax.
