Ed Roberson
Chicago is doing its home
Chicago thing—       sweet baby
blue skies, fading into haze on the lake
horizon, huge

puffs of  gray-bottomed cumulus, stark
autumn light in brilliant 55 degrees air
and a forecast of  possible
snow flurries tomorrow.

I love it when it does that greedy
fuck you meteorology thing—
this town ain’t big enough for
the weather and     a weather man

somebody got to go— it takes you
out                                 in style.



You don’t even know that
it is.     anything
you don’t know.       it just is.
like the names of  streets.      north   south.

elm.
Murder.     The capital isn’t here
Our per capita
too small         though our totals reign

as natural as rain  as police.
But we      die.        protected
yes     this here just then didn’t make sense.
And neither does that

it is
something accepted.
from the journal POETRY
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"Every age has created its own Sappho. Some even invented a second in order to sidestep the contradictions of the stories: she was variously described as a priestess in the service of Aphrodite or the Muses, a hetaera, a man-crazed woman, a love-crazed virago, a kindly teacher, a gallant lady; by turns shameless and corrupt, or prim and pure."
 
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Jonathan Stalling on "Spring Snow" 


"The most influential genre of Classical Chinese Poetry is called ‘regulated verse’ (各路诗), and these forms gather the world into words and refold them into inter-resonant patterns on a cosmological scale. Each monosyllabic word must be stacked in relation to the one before and after, above and below until the whole rests upon a final balanced point, as relaxed and exact as a cairn of transparent quartz."
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