This poem appears in the Spring 2015 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.
On the first day of spring, Winslow
Looked from the window to resurrect
His imagination’s unpainted canvases.
Maybe a low tide, small runnels
Rolling up across the sand, tide pools
Holding spirits no less than hermit
Crabs or sandpipers, dark rings about their
Throats, all nerves tuned to alarms.
There should be a clam-digger wading
The mudflat, bending at intervals,
Herring gulls at their usual squabbles.
Pictures should look unintended, coming
Into view and then departing, another Transparent instant when no one is looking.