Elizabeth Sanger

From synthetic crash of sea; sea’s admonishment

presaged on the newly sheer slip of shore


(grow me a face

where she is buried)


I in my half-shaded bode, shadow


of contiguity, event

sundered to a simple limb, history

cloaked and needful


ask how many

simultaneous woods are she

hooded through


or what bespeaks the tender

auto, its mad patience

to begin being—