• Poetry

    Billy Collins

    Winter 2015

    I, too, like it
    more than many other things.

    The way it enters
    without knocking and is there.

    The way it occupies a page
    floating as if in a lake of milk.

    And how the end of every line
    pulls me back to the center.

    Not to mention
    what can happen only here:

    a grown man turning into a flower
    a star falling into your lap,

    a tiger on fire in the night,
    or a child in an imaginary garden

    pointing a finger at a real toad
    while she looks back at her mother.

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