There’s nothing I can’t find under there.

Voices in the trees, the missing pages
of the sea.

Everything but sleep.

And night is a river bridging
the speaking and listening banks,

a fortress, undefended and inviolate.

There’s nothing that won’t fit under it:
fountains clogged with mud and leaves,
the houses of my childhood.


 

“Pillow” (excerpt) by Li-Young Lee

vignette ephemera

A poet in every corner.

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