Two Poems by Carol Dorf
Pleasure does not read the paper or anyone's tweets.
Pleasure does not read the paper or anyone's tweets.
On the bedstead another one direct and diaphanous begins its boogie.
prison guard’s hand on roses, eyes, leather belt
Every ‘I,’ every eye, is political
She’s staring dreamily at the bronze figures, life-size, in full gallop, cascading from their marble pedestal.
It is an easy though mentally challenging hike that affords excellent views of the Chevron Refinery.
Over my coffee I read that John Hoke’s dead, and outside our problems multiply.
Again and again the thick filament grips thin abdomens.
This land is rainforest, charged by rhythms of cicadas.
who was the one who gleaned?