O dove, fly to Aleppo with my Byzantine ode
And take my greeting to my kinsman.
Before I was born, I saw a tissue of ingenious detours, an inextricable tangle
wreathed with mistake.
Perhaps the ghost does not limp away, but rather forests flee me, frightened.
Look, they are setting a place for loss, clearing the table for the first glow of
Here we see William T. Walters in his little library illuminated, carefully
smoothing the lip of the continent.
What form bounds forward from behind but The Atlantic Railroad Coastline Co.?
The whole Roman Empire was sold by ascending auction in 193 A.D.
A globe enclosed. Bottomless years. The train has stopped on the platform and no
one is there, for these are the Public Days, when the “Poor Association” claims the
As if bound by the knots of invention, I found a wrong road dotted with weeds
Sasha Steensen, “Palinode” from The Method. Copyright © 2008 by Sasha Steensen. Reprinted by permission of Sasha Steensen.
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Poet Sasha Steensen b. 1974
POET’S REGION U.S., Northwestern
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