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From Underground Sonnets
Will S.

Tell us, lines, what we should say. Let the hand-
writing govern our movements. Each key can 
lower the fingers gradually down. Com-
mentary goes rusty, awry. The house 
must come clean. She sounds with garbled fields. A 
seasonal grief she has, they say. But who 
is she? The soup will be ready. Let us 
hide out in the greasy parlance. A last 
dash from germs. And none of it is ever 
last, or lasting. We rein with these lines, bars 
cross, disclose, open, our faces. There is 
still one more line to fill, who is it for?
Dear, is it you, you reading, your line to


Within Arms

       My hand has reached out for you this many 
       semblance of mornings. If we were asked 
       why we were underground, how to answer? 
       As the fault of your sadness falls. These some 
       blossoms may need adjusting. Testing the
       waters for our lungs, I find sticks in them, 
       whole branches veritably on leave—per-
       haps why the poems root underground. “When the 
       sea hits those stones they talk.” Occasional-
       ly I love you more than the sky. How we 
       feel may tear this winter into spring and 
       if I don’t say anything something hap-
       pens. But let me at least love you in the off 
       season by phone, we shall love each other 

more than the elements, if I love you still more in the horizon


Love Winter Too

                 Dear Earth take in this fairy breath. Let it
                 seep into the mischievous crannies, the
                 rooks and rocks. What is behind the lily,
                 the foregone conclusion? If we look
                 at the interstices, the common lines be-
                 tween sheets of rain. I wanted to write in-
                 to your heart but the chambers are closed. What 
                 freedom in the rain when memory is for
                 sale? What response to give a fairy? We
                 manage, nonetheless, a raucous cheer
                 with the Daily Show, a tempestuous
                 cloud of letters. Even with pomegran-
                 ate molasses to soften the duck: we
                 cannot change, the most we can do is see.

They dance the serrated edges of the leaves, the milky surface of the pond.

Sarah Riggs is a poet, translator, visual artist, and mother. Her books include Waterwork (Chax Press), Chain of Minuscule Decisions in the Form of a Feeling (Reality Street), and 60 Textos (Ugly Duckling Presse, forthcoming in 2010). She is the director of the international nonprofit Tamaas, and a member of Double Change in Paris.