← v21n2, Fall 2022
Poetry · Volume 21, Number 2

What never added up will add up

—It’s not that you were born with

A never mind—absolutely not—ever—

As if hell were more eternal than

Heaven, but this I know, no, that

The ginestra I used as a broom will bloom again?

—Bundle of twigs, stout pole, tied

Tight with vinco, sweep what needs

Sweeping, “it’s the poor what gets

The blame,” rub the charred willow wands

On the blue wall, blackened words, how do they speak?

—What you left, stays left, the névé,

The upper part of a glacier, all ice,

You always moved under your own weight, ghiaccio

Melting like the lód it is, wading into

The water like Virginia Woolf did, never.