Linda Gregerson Poems
Comments about Linda Gregerson
When love was a question, the message arrived
in the beak of a wire and plaster bird. The coloratura
was hardly to be believed. For flight,
it took three stagehands: two
on the pulleys and one on the flute. And you
thought fancy rained like grace.
Our fog machine lost in the Parcel Post, we improvised
with smoke. The heroine dies of tuberculosis after all.
Remorse and the raw night air: any plausible tenor
might cough. The passions, I take my clues
from an obvious source, may be less like climatic events
than we conventionalize, ...
The world's a world of trouble, your mother must
have told you
that. Poison leaks into the basements
and tedium into the schools. The oak
is going the way
of the elm in the upper Midwest—my cousin