Runner – Susan Wicks

You’d hardly call it running, yet he runs
low to the ground, a sort of fluent
hobble, in the shallow valley of the gutter,
trusting the cars and buses
to see him and steer round him, while his feet

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Harvest – Thomas Mitchell

The night sky opens its starry picture book: an archer,
a bear, a winged horse. And a thousand miles east, in North Platte,
I know you see them too. The house is empty, only the coffee rings

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& Poets.org has “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” posted as its daily poem today. Here’s a good animation of the famous poem: