A Poem By Alfred Corn

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Perfect Pitcher

for David

The invaders used a non-vegetarian method
of emptying the town of its populace.

What we see is a kind of attributed trembling, as
with stars, or pebbles in the streambed of a brook.

He led us a dance, which ended in closed-mouth laughter.
A brimming fountain in the middle distance spilled a willow.

The poem misses, and only by a
hairsbreadth, being nothing but itself.

Windowframe. Branch of a red maple
bowing the breeze, seventeen times.

Don’t call that cerise shirt loud. Colors, too, have
feelings, they can hurt and be hurt, same as words.

Over a tall glass J. and I babbled
of green tables and W.C. Fields.

Travel time backwards far enough, and you’ll see
sweetness is as tough as poured milk. Concentric

echoes in the pond console the lost beloved’s image.

Alfred Corn is the author of numerous books of poems including, most recently, Tables (Press 53, 2013).

Oh, the poems you’ll read! You may contact the editor at [email protected].