XXI. Wings

Steps off a scraped March sky and sinks
Up into the blind Atlantic morning One small
Red dog jumping across the beach miles below
Like a freed shadow

–from Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson


glass under the skin

You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?

excerpted from The Glass Essay by Anne Carson
(I fucking love Anne Carson)