The past is a bucket of ashes. 1 The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time and does her hair the way she wants it and fastens at last the last braid and coil and puts the hairpin where it belongs and turns and drawls: Well, what of it? My grandmother,
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|Landmark||Robert Frost Stone House Museum||Vermont|
|Poetry-Friendly Bookstore||Poetry Landmark: The Grolier Poetry Book Shop||Massachusetts|
|Writing Program||University of Notre Dame Creative Writing Program||Indiana|
|Literary Magazine||Black Warrior Review||Alabama|
|Festival||New York Poetry Festival||New York|
|Conference||University of North Dakota Writers Conference||North Dakota|
|Conference||Litquake: San Francisco Literary Festival||California|
|Conference||Poets Forum||New York|
A Night Piece
No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air And binds the brain—a dense oppression, such As tawny tigers feel in matted shades, Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage. Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.