Like a child, the earth’s going to sleep,
or so the story goes.
But I’m not tired, it says.
And the mother says, You may not be tired but I’m tired—
At the Metropolitan Museum – Matthew Siegel
I had sworn I wouldn’t write
another poem about my mom
but in the museum there is a room
filled with centuries-old pottery sherds
and it is difficult not to start seeing
symbols everywhere. We walk through
My Heart – Barbara Crooker
I want a new heart,
not this bit of chipped
blue ice. Cracked
asphalt parking lot.
A coastline, a transitional place
bears evidence of others dwelling: