View Archives by:



Carolyn Guinzio

Be still. Let
the procession come

to you. A moon
might be rising

behind the podium:
It remains beneath

notice. It is
nothing to breath,

to the porous
route of air.

It is not
pliable, that rock,

and we are
to care proportionately

for the supple,
for those close

to becoming. This
is a process,

that is, knowable
to the human

eye—Not some
greater human eye,

but to our
own little history.

Take the paper.
Sign the paper.

The moon will
by then have

moved from your
line of sight.

Carolyn Guinzio

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems