by James Galvin

You can’t step into the same River even once, And why would you want to? You can’t Lie down without turning your back On someone. The sun slips Like butter in a pan. The eastern sky arrives On the back stoop in its dark Suit. It draws itself up Full height to present its double Rainbow like an armful of flowers. Thank you, they’re lovely.

I step outside where the wind Lifts my hair and it’s just Beginning to rain in the sun, And the earth silvers like a river We’re in, I swear to God, And you can’t step out of a river

by Primoz Cucnik 

Most poems I don’t understand. Even my own only in a way. Some I read twenty times over, others I simply pass. We don’t connect. But rare are those that light up never to let go of me since I’m in love. A short break or a fanciful oblivion cannot help. I have to go back, with love, and coil up on the surface of understanding, closeness. As with a woman and a friend, when you know their every weakness yet forgive it in advance. Because it doesn’t matter. Because there are other levels. I confess: I don’t understand poetry, though it lures and pulls and lifts me, whispering words in circles, toying with how weak and strong I am, how torn and intact. Yet I also know: Something has snapped. Already the first time, then the second and on like that, it’s snapping all the time, crack, dry wood, a long hazel stick. A pipe, I dance to your whistle. I’m your dedicated listener who needs you. Love, the sum of all the moments in a void. Silence and distance, it all ends well. Nothing ends. Also this, what Miłosz says: Who serves best doesn’t always understand. We’ve come far enough once we’ve called this love. And once again I admit: I already am. I am not yet. This I write to you, you who has already ended, yet every time I find us a new beginning. And as in love I utter your complexion. I know: One needs to be precise. Out of trust.

One needs to think of everything. Always other than selfishly. What can I say: I miss you. In this poem. I miss you in this room. I miss your voice. I miss your voice. And the tremble of touch. It is only out of love that a poem is possible. Beauty is vacuum. Vacuum is perfection. Perfection is convulsive and free. Who serves best doesn’t always understand. This sets things far away and it helps. It is all felt. All is still. It all is.

Get at us!

by Mark Strand