Norman Dubie

(1945 / United States / Barre, Vermont)

Best Poem of Norman Dubie

February: The Boy Breughel

The birches stand in their beggar's row:
Each poor tree
Has had its wrists nearly
Torn from the clear sleeves of bone,
These icy trees
Are hanging by their thumbs
Under a sun
That will begin to heal them soon,
Each will climb out
Of its own blue, oval mouth;
The river groans,
Two birds call out from the woods

And a fox crosses through snow
Down a hill; then, he runs,
He has overcome something white
Beside a white bush, he shakes
It twice, and as he turns
For the woods, the blood in the snow

Looks like the red fox,
At a distance,...

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South Boston Morning

Very pragmatic closets of falling water,
bath and sewer, complex
dwellers eating black bread,
molasses and stringy beef,
eggs like fat flowers
smack the backs of griddlecakes
and rain is thrown against the window
white and elastic with one blue gull
in a loud commentary.

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