ONLY poems listed here or in the current printed anthology are eligible for the 2016-2017 competition.
Sometimes I long to be the woodpile,
cut-apart trees soon to be smoke,
or even the smoke itself, ...
The last full moon of Februarystalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow.
Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west
stealthily changing position...
The way a tired Chippewa woman
Who’s lost a child gathers up black feathers,
Black quills & leaves ...
Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made thy music; as I come ...
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run, ...
It only takes one night with the wind on its knees
to imagine Carl Sandburg unfolding
a map of Chicago, puzzled, then walking the wrong way....
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