ISSUE: Spring 2001
Poetry is not a code
to be broken
but a way of seeing
with the eyes shut,
of short-circuiting
the usual
connections until
lioness and
knee become
the same thing.
Though not a cure
it can console,
the way cool sheets
console
the dying flesh,
the way a glass of cold
water can be
a way station
on the unswerving
road to thirst.