ONLY poems listed here or in the current printed anthology are eligible for the 2018-2019 competition.
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed...
Angels don’t come to the reservation.
Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things.
Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—...
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,...
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light....
A queer thing about those waters: there are noBirds there, or hardly any.
I did not miss them, I do not remember
Missing them, or thinking it uncanny....
The hounds, you know them all by name.
You fostered them from purblind whelps
At their dam’s teats, and you have come ...
We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry....
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there...
The mower alone
saw from the median
the cloud come over...
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us...
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