Debora Greger Poems

limestone, with traces of polychromy, c. 1250

Point Dume was the point,
he said, but we never came close,
...

What is sky but water, more water,
crossed by eight bridges?
Is the ancient poet in a rush to reach land?
...

And in that city the houses of the dead
are left empty, if the dead are famous enough;
by day the living pay to see if dust is all
...

Someone had propped a skateboard
by the door of the classroom,
to make quick his escape, come the bell.
...

Out of the cracks of cups and their handles, missing,
the leaves unceremoniously tossed, unread,
from a stubble of coffee ground ever more finely
into these hollowed grounds,
...