By Billy Collins
The first one to rise on a Sunday morning,I enter the white bathroomtrying not to think of Christ or Wallace Stevens.
All winter long they are occupied only by their vacancy.The paintings look out from the white walls.The wicker beds and the wicker chairs are not taken.
By Rita Dove
It's a sunny weekday in Mayand I have had a bowl of beef stewand a cold bottle of beer on the brick patio
This morning I sit across from youat the same small table,the sun italicizing
By Richard Eberhart
I spring joy out of my rib cageLike a flash of pigeons flying NorthSouth here in Mississippi, Florida
By Donald Hall
August, goldenrod blowing. We walkinto the graveyard, to findmy grandfather's grave. Ten years ago
The first horn lifts its arm over the dew-lit grassand in the slave quarters there is a rustling—children are bundled into aprons, cornbread