Winter 1990 Edition Selections
by David Weiss
The significance of a name, I have come to think, may lie in what it fails to name. Its inexpressiveness may be its most expressive quality. Mostly, we tend to feel the opposite; this afternoon a friend said to me, “You know, the trouble with Russell Baker’s columns is that he writes like a Russell.”
by John Meredith Hill
Repeatedly my right elbow slips off
this sweat-slickened red vinyl arm of my
landlord’s chair as overhead another
palm frond, burned-out, drops onto the roof tiles
and skitters eavesward. . . .
by Jane Somerville
There’s as much going on right here in this backyard
as in a city, a continent, I tell them,
spreading out my arms, opening my fingers
to take it all in. They don’t pay any attention.
They’re used to my extravagance and think I’m a fake.
by Robert Wrigley
Something’s dead in that stand of fir
one ridge over. Ravens circle and swoop
above the trees, while others
swirl up from below, like paper scraps
blackened in a fire. . . .
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections