View Archives by:


from Shy Green Fields

Hugh Steinberg

Actually brave, only appearing tentative
as a kind of slyness, some soft dust;

you can see you, peeling you off of
you, your voice, reaching out, the branches,

the radio glow of the sky, a possibility of ticking,
see —it was hardly known, so we hung back,

oiled unto ourselves, budding green shoots, sleep.

Hugh Steinberg

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems