Issue 150, Spring 1999
Even Atalanta’s tongue was turned eventually.
Parting the high raceway grasses
she bent down for that last apple,
its gold a kind of language in the light,
and heard her dialect scatter.
So strains of your argument bear
great darkness and then gleam,
and I do not lose the rhetoric of your approach.
Impossible to refuse, the logic of your arrival
was silent and bright and gaped until