by Jay Hopler
National Book Award Nominee
These Days Could Kill a Man
CRUSHED BY THE SKY—
That would be the headline.
And every olive tree in this garden
Would weep its leaves,
Its silver-green-gray leaves, like a widow weeps
Its glass when a rock sails through
It. I mean…, a window.
Shatter—, shatter—, say the bells
Of Santa Maria in Trastevere. When you’re lost, you’re gone
Say the birds. Dreadful sorry, say
From a Window
after Eugenio Montale
I saw the hooded crow lift from the
Back wall and fly south, over the village, toward the river.
I saw, her apron sacked with apples,
The caretaker’s daughter come slowly in from the orchard.
I saw the thunderheads bloom in an
Otherwise clear sky and drift, low. And darken the garden.
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