Sandra Simonds
New Poems From the USA

far from the turmoil.
from the forgetting.

what is the point of this star
crushing the green

out of my iris?
from the tower. from

all consequence.
the clock doesn’t

hesitate moving
around the circumference

of its mouth.
far from the nearest friend or

the red coin in
the enemy’s moist palm.

the ocean is inversion
in sound convoluting speech

like a white shell
held to a child’s

eardrum. far from thought.
thought imagined or real.