Small Boat (Iowa Poetry Prize) by Lesle Lewis

By Lesle Lewis

In Small Boat Lesle Lewis's craft rides the waves of the recent England panorama either inner and exterior. If her global is a university, as she says, then her poems give you the glue that anchors every little thing from shifts within the climate to global occasions to a cacophony of techniques. while sentences collide, a brand new dating starts, and Lewis's poems convey feel to those advanced and disparate juxtapositions. Small Boat, in different phrases, either creates an exhilarating chaos and gives a calming religion.

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Am I jumping now? This feeling bad has a name. He’s called Falling, many choices and one destination. He’s an unnecessary person and hot burning at the tip of the inexpressible. He is the fall from summer like looking out through venetian blinds. He is a falling man. I carry three books at a time. They all end with coffee in town, a change stuck in change, my pockets full of feathers, the effects of caffeine and nothing to do. A foreshadowing of books leans, no ends to hold them upright, not where the sun hits on the bed but the spot of blue blanket lit and I am the person waiting for it.

27 We Love This Place Gently ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ The prince made a worried babyface and zipped his sweatshirt right up to his chin. The sudden descension of the season and its mood stayed until our company left. The dog thought we were all love machines. Our visitors’ energy was shared and in the throat. I was a fortunate, sharing with the brothers. I was not the center of anyone’s suffering universe even if I felt their pain always in my liver. ) floating. My prince paddled to the island of a neighbor, smearest paint.

43 Pictures from the Linden Farms Institute ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ ĺ 1. Old married lunatics make love like moonlight shining through icicles, his ears the moon halves. Then they watch TV with a remote and it’s a cold nine degrees out. She has an extra blanket on her side. He’s barechested. She falls asleep first. A little later he turns off the news. There lies in sleeping an abstract weather pattern in the eaves of dawn which never lingers long in the daytime, a pink light on that blue white snow on the woodshed roof.

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