--- S H A R O N   D O L I N

Enter the saucer
coiled of air

     murky clouds on the table
     rainswept into a spiral

cup of dark water
there are enough	

     frangible moments to
     make this an ars		

poetica of form
lanced of content:

     poppies may be as orange
     as the line

down the table's center
which does not go 

     with the shadow
     is blue.

The album opened 
onto a room a letter

     that was never forgiven
     coffee mug pools in shadow.

If I could tell you 
without anxious precision


     mistrals of feeling
     I would not have to 

skip around so.