raymond souster

The wild wolves of winter
swept through the streets last night. Hate glared
in their eyes like unexploded neon
the wind of their howling a thousand blood-curling moans
the teeth of their hunger endless fields of aching snow.

The wild wolves of winter
welcome nowhere, scratched at doors and windows,
ripped at roofs, tore at chimneys, kept us wide awake,
nervous in our warm, sleep-calling beds.

Then as suddenly
were gone, all was quiet. We turned a last time
in our beds and slept.

—  Raymond Souster
Queen Anne's Lace- Raymond Souster

It’s a kind of flower

that if you didn’t know it

you’d pass by the rest of your life.


But once it’s been pointed out

you’ll look for it always,

even in places

where you know it can’t possibly be.


You’ll never tire

of bending over to examine

of marvelling at this

shyest filigree of wonder

born among grasses.


You’ll imaging poems

as brief, as spare,

so natural with themselves

as to take your breath away.