A POET'S WINTER
No poem stalks me
so I start the chase: Eavesdrop
on children, walk abandoned houses,
wear my uncle's sweatshirt, read
Newsweek backwards.
In exhaustion I surrender
to the suction of sleep.
Whispering together
in the rafters above me,
crystal-bright sestinas
drift down like snowflakes,
giggle on contact,
then dissolve.
—Shoshauna Shy
WHITE POEM
Poems
crop up in my mouth
like baby teeth
It will take
one night sleeping alone
in a white room
to jar them loose
—Shoshauna Shy
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previously published in The Rockford Writers' Guild