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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