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| Dale Lockwood |
Fog
A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensible: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands' spruce-tips
drunk up like milk in the
universal emulsion; houses
reverting into the lost
and forgotten; granite
subsumed, a rumor
in a mumble of ocean.
Tactile
definition, however, has not been
totally banished: hanging
tassel by tassel, panicled
foxtail and needlegrass,
dropseed, furred hawkweed,
and last season's rose-hips
are vested in silenced
chimes of the finest,
clearest sea-crystal.
Opacity
opens up rooms, a showcase
for the hueless moonflower
corolla, as Georgia
O'Keefe might have seen it,
of foghorns; the nodding
campanula of bell buoys;
the ticking, linear
filigree of bird voices.
Amy Clampitt
So many times the only response to a poem I can make
is to be quiet and read it over again.
Clampitt is masterful at description -
I have nothing to say that adds to her work.
She has done it all so beautifully that I see and recognize
each detail.
She makes it sound obvious, simple.
It is anything but.
