With my apologies to the Atlanta Review,
which is the true source for the best new poetry
(imho), but which, sadly, does not publish on line . . . .
Slate
It is Tuesday
and so even
before checking
my stock or
opening my email
to see what has
gone awry while
I was sleeping
or if there is
something newly
funny circum-
navigating
the worldwide web,
I go straight to
Slate to read the
weekly poem
because as
everyone
who attends to
poetry knows
Slate offers the best
new poetry,
except, of course,
for The New Yorker,
which also
publishes old
poetry if
the poet has
recently died
or there is a
new translation
from the Polish,
and I suddenly
wonder: when did
the minutiae
of everyday life
articulated
in triple-barreled
words become
the stuff of
poetry and
whatever happened
to love and loss
and when was it
exactly that
we decreed
that Truth should be
quotidian?
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