When Claude says blessed is he who has seen …
Claudia Emerson
It nuzzles oblivion, confuses …
Claude says he, too, was given the tracks and not …
The word itself: prim, retired, its artifact …
The world has certified itself rid of …
It was fifty cents a game …
Most of the things you made for me—blanket- …
My brother's funeral over, the dark-clothed …
She perches high on the stand, gleaming whistle …
yours is not the majestic Gypsy …
The my becomes …
One rusty horseshoe hangs on a nail …
The town’s trees, roomy with winter, have begun …