Parading

Poets swagger up and down the shore, I’ll bet.

Down the throat. At night they dance, don’t they,
Wagging their hips in time to the raucous tide.
Wagging their hips in time to the raucous tide.
They tip back their heads and life sears a path
They tip back their heads and life sears a path
Down the throat. At night they dance, don’t they,
Down the throat. At night they dance, don’t they,
Across tiles that might as well be glass, or ice. —Tracy K. Smith
Across tiles that might as well be glass, or ice.
—Tracy K. Smith

atoms

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