After the palace burns

Jennifer Gosetti-Ferencei

II

To Keat's sonnet "On the sonnet", p 25

	A dark vine [...]
	[...] just to prove
	more steadfast than the tree it curls around,
	[...]
	eventually kills. [...]
	I, too, have glimpsed that tight terrain of fears
	that our poetry binds up in rhyme.

III

Nine Arts for Things Real and Imagined

IX. The Crocodile, or the Art of Loss, p 25

	At the museum, I stumble upon cracked spines
	wrapped around a crocodile, illegible muslin folds.
	Its empty hollow is stretched like a drum [...]

[...]

	But this was long ago. They were not meant
	to see the sun coming in again, and leaving,
	through these vague curtains, the door closing.

A certain slant of light

        How rare, and brief, the youthful cry of summer,
        The light makes us hungry, want to live.