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The Baby

Kate Northrop
The shadows of the couple 
	enter the dark field, cross
silent as a seam

having left at the center
a white box, white
as a box

for a birthday cake.  Inside,
the baby.
Abandoned there

in the tall grass,
in the night wind,

he wants for everything: food, warmth,
	a little
baby hope.

	But the world
swirls around the box.  The world

like a forest goes on

and paths go on through it
	each road leading nowhere, leading away

from the baby.  Still
in the center of the field,
his breath

rises quietly.  Grasses shiver.
Overhead, through trees

a sound approaches, like wings,
or this time, scissors.

From Things Are Disappearing Here, Copyright © 2007 by Kate Northrop. Reprinted with permission of Persea Books.

From Things Are Disappearing Here, Copyright © 2007 by Kate Northrop. Reprinted with permission of Persea Books.

Kate Northrop

by this poet

poem
You imagined yourself
There on the overpass
Leaning through snow
Further toward cars

Their outlines still dark
Their headlights
Locked by distance
Then opening as if

Cautiously the beams
Lengthening over the median
Onto leaves the underside
Of certain leaves

And the drivers inside
Each face described 
By