Poetry Isn’t Trending Out of fashion now — The long hours spent Making and doing, Turning and shaping lines, For a dwindling clientele Of other poets and academics Who might notice The grain of a line, A phrase honed smooth Or left rough as timber. No one else cares to look. And yet the trade persists — If trade is even the word — Since there is nothing to gain. A dying art Like the fletching of arrows, Or the mending of clocks With a dex

If the Rain in Warsaw Sounds Like This From a secret they shaped A room in London— A breath of space Lit by a single candle’s hush. Out there the war was cold, Close to freezing. But they were warm within. Stillness gathered. They listened to icy rain Softly striking stone— Each drop a touch, A covert word Only they understood. It was a fragile pact: Two selves from opposing worlds, Folded into one, Briefly, tenderly. Then a man fro