Still now, small morsels of you on my tongue.
Eugenia Leigh, last line to Sustenance
from here – thank you, poem-locker (transubstantiated since December 2015)
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from China

seen from Israel
seen from China

seen from Cambodia

seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from Poland

seen from Türkiye
seen from Brunei

seen from Germany
seen from China
Still now, small morsels of you on my tongue.
Eugenia Leigh, last line to Sustenance
from here – thank you, poem-locker (transubstantiated since December 2015)
A finger to her lips the pause of night.
Molly Peacock, final lines to Of night
from here – thank you, poem-locker (in the dark since December 2015)
Rain that we know will go on long after we too dissolve into figures of stone, row upon row, a city of rain.
Alvin Pang, final stanza to Rain
from here – thank you, poem-locker (dissolved since December 2015)
You always longed for longing more than anything else.
Lyn Lifshin, final lines to Last night was less dark than dreams were
from here – thank, poem-locker (longing since December 2015)
And left unsaid some things he should have spoken, about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.
Simon Armitage, final stanza to To his lost lover
from here – thank you, poem-locker (unspoken since December 2015)
Both, though, would have marveled at the little book a convict in one of Stalin’s gulags made to hold Akhmatova poems he had by heart, a fascicle bound with twine, the pages’ coarse paper somehow glued to birchbark. The twenty-first. Night. Monday. the first one starts.
Judith Hemschemeyer, final lines to Or just miss
from here – thank you, poem-locker (locked away since December 2015)
At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison, one without a glove, the entire last chapter about a necklace that couldn’t be worn inherited by a great-niece along with the love letters bound in silk.
Dean Young, final lines to Changing genres
from here – thank you, poem-locker (galloping away since December 2015)
Remind me: my bed is empty, my graying hair pinned up and tumbling from a starfish clip where once a waterfall by Crivelli flowed over the white shoulders of Sparta.
Melissa Green, opening lines to Leda, later
from here – thank, poem-locker (ageing gracefully since December 2015)