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Sarah Fox

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  Sarah Fox
Sarah Fox lives in Minneapolis where she teaches poetry and creative writing through The Loft, SASE, The Write Place,
Sarah Fox
and the Perpich Center for Arts Education. Her first collection of poems, Assembly of the Shades, was a finalist for both the National Poetry Series and the Hayden Carruth Poetry Award, and is forth-coming from Salmon Publishing. Originally from Milwaukee, Fox has lived in Minneapolis for eight years. During that time she has worked as a publicity director for Coffee House Press, and is a board member for Rain Taxi Review of Books to which she is a regular contributor.

Because Why
i. m. Lorine Niedecker

Sarah Fox
Trees are a matter of fact
adorning what? They matter
are sturdy to sit on, are
windy and standing not with.
In fact trees for example.
Those ones, from shifty windows.
Ticking there for stop.
Time to go time
to birth on the hourly snow.
April mattering (Stop) Because
I licked it. Young birch
branch. Rhyme scored
white curled in dirt.
A many birch. I saw
at it, rupture. No,
maple. Here. A skyway
zone because swing. Trees
to pain matter-of-factly.
Bowls upon, clink, ivory
chimes. Carry so much never.
Feel perhaps patriotic, burned,
broken. Sad
to fall and bald and shed.
With standing. Not
per se walking. In fact
we don't certainly know,
perusing only so-called rings.
I remember other than, buffalo
(Heard buffalo? Thunder buffalo?)
Rain, an instant. Mercy
(Whistling. Making wishes.)
And swings, creaking,
do arouse: trees
matter: to themselves?
Adorning your very own
window yard. Stopbox.
In fact they are (speaking)
simply like thought, as in
like something odd, yarn,
invisible. We can't hear.
What matters in the green
communion because nameless.
Snow, April: we are in fact nameless,
sorry. Perhaps
soothe nothing. I feel
now, only. The Woods.
Are lovely are dark are.
Across my feet the rubbery yard
wet. White. My feet. Trees
too probably stop, cry out.
In fact they may cry out.
Matter of course.
For April is snowing.
Trees do because they do because.

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