who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be

beautiful who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals

that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin


sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls clicking their bony fingers

envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh


they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own

cupped hands enough not me again
enough but who can distinguish

one human voice
amid such choruses of desire
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Vintage photograph of a man and woman completing a giant crossword
Why Poets Love Crosswords

"How is a poem like a crossword puzzle? feels like the start to a bad joke. Even though crosswords seem related to poetry on the surface—minute attention to language! love of words! precision!—poets and critics often bristle at the idea of the puzzle, and use it as a metonym for all things that a poem should not be."

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Cover of Dover Thrift Editions' Chicago Poems by Carl Sandburg
What Sparks Poetry:
Marianne Boruch on Carl Sandburg's "Limited"

"A solid first person speaker lives in, and guides Sandburg’s poem which is both contained and expansive in its imagery, those steely trains so tightly made crossing a continent of grassland and farms and woods and cities and poverty and fortune. There’s thinking (via assertion and the underground parenthetical) and conversation in the piece, a sense of myth and miraculous in the ordinary, rust and ashes waiting in what is snappy-fast and gleaming. Nothing is as it seems."
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