Author Archive

What Hours Were These Ours

By Chet Corey

1
The ends of weeks–
their mornings, middle hours.
Beginnings. Once
when I brought forgiveness
from my rock garden,
gone two years neglected:

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Mid-January with Chinese Poet — For Doug

By Chet Corey

I am reading Meng Hao-jan’s poems
and drinking the last of tea at twilight.

My wife, up from a late-in-the-day nap,
has taken the dog for her evening walk.

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Hairpin

By Chet Corey

A common hairpin appears on my bathroom
tile floor. I bend to pick it up.
So out of season. She went away early fall.

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God’s Dream

By Chet Corey

It was a recurring dream.
Oedipal, said Freud.
Impossible, said God. I have neither father nor mother.
God called for Jung.
What did Freud say, asked Carl.

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The Mastery of Light

By Chet Corey

Light allowed in
through a dormer window.

Its insistence of radiance
fills the corner of the room,
back wall, stiff wimple.

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