Tag Archives: Poetry

Bai Juyi, trans. Jaime Robles

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Two Poems

Translated by Jaime Robles with Ma Chengyu; video by Jaime Robles

 

Bai Juyi (白居易; 772–846), courtesy name Letian (樂天), was a musician, poet, and politician during the mid-Tang dynasty. A successful politician who governed three states during his long career, he was known for an accessible, near vernacular style that was popular throughout medieval East Asia. He was a practitioner of Chan Buddhism. In 832, Bai Juyi repaired an unused part of the Xiangshan Monastery, about seven miles south of Luoyang. He then moved to this location, where he spent the last fourteen years of his life. While living there, he referred to himself as the “Hermit of Xiangshan.”
Jaime Robles is a writer and visual artist. Her artist’s books are housed at the University of California, Berkeley; Yale University; and the Oulipo Archive in Paris, among others. She has two collections published by Shearsman Books (UK), Anime Animus Anima and Hoard, and has been published by many journals, including Conjunctions, Black Sun Lit, New American Writing and Shearsman. On her Substack page, she publishes her thoughts on poetry, art, witches and girl troubadours.
Ma Chengyu studied in Europe and the United States. She currently teaches Chinese and studies guqin. She lives in Shenzhen, China.

Heikki Huotari

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Template 2

Silence, if it has a magnitude, has a direction. In the mirror image of my mirror image I was made. Another day another litmus test, if I’m not pink I’m blue and blue only for you.

Consider the tectonic plates as yet unnamed, the tentacles as yet untwisted in their conduits of cloth, the vertigo of worship and arousal, the subconsciousness to amortize the savoir-faire.

The perpetrators of refraction populate a prism. Two constituents may share a chair. As one is just and one is merciful I’m timing my arrival. A soupcon of angst enlivens a dark day. To never bubble up one doubles down on thou-shalt-not.

My hero’s a generic patriot. An orbit goes elliptical due to a lazy eye. Without a dispensation there’d be no betrothal. Football, tenure and promotion lifted me and placed me on a post then, laughing, drove away. All arms and legs,

I’m swimming in the air. A walking null hypothesis, my road is long and winding, short and winding, long and straight or short and straight. That’s one small step for one great ape. The null hypothesis says nothing can be done.

Template 3

Forgive them for they are amused but know it not. Their cartilage connected to their ligament, their camouflage connected to their testament, they may not get the message or may not repent in time.

But on a scale of one to ten, how stable is the equilibrium? Knowing, we’d be velociraptors even in our sleep. On hearing that the signal to noise ratio has been trending down, what real or artificial heart would skip no beat?

As in a church that took three hundred years to build, as those three hundred years can’t be brought back, as God without my guidance can’t but stray, the innocent bystander and the butterfly affect each other and the spinning lily stands alone, i.e., apart, i.e.,

the lily finally has it all. Now nature disdains both high and low pressure. Each such creature, each such übermensch is either not invented yet or out to pasture. Which came first, the cosmos? No extraterrestrials are harmed. I’m one of three creatives waiting

to be lauded. When I see a Gulf-of-Mexico sized crater, I’ll know there’s a crater maker. On removing the removable discontinuity, I’m driving through the twilight to the night. I’m not a placeholder, is just what we expect a placeholder to say.

Template 4

I’ve identified the flying object, now what, what, what’s that in horses’ hands, what’s that in tinkers’ damns, what’s that in sinners’ angry tears. The pixilation averages the twisted bits and dear.

It’s not prehensile so it’s not my atavism and my null hypothesis is, it’s the fall. It’s at a saddle point I’ll minimize my loss and maximize my gain. I’ll emulate the incidental attributes of influencers fluently.

I’ll double-clutch to Doppler shift and grind no gears. The purity of the experience will not be dulled. Spontaneous combustion presupposes a spontaneous combustor, a spontaneous combustor of sound mind.

A universe for every big bang, every big bang in its universe, pursuant to peace treaties my position relative to certain entities is fixed. If it’s not charity when I vend pencils, a ray emanates as from a non-binary star.

It must have been at midnight when the power went out or so the clock says when the clock says I’m alive. The butterfly will see me now. The butterfly will see me now, it’s only been two thousand years.

Heikki Huotari wrote his first poem the morning after the major died in the adjacent bed. Since retiring from academia/mathematics he has published more than 500 poems in literary journals, including Pleiades, Florida Review and The Journal, and in six chapbooks and six collections. He has won one book prize (Star 82 Press) and two chapbook prizes (Gambling The Aisle and Survision Press). His Erdős number is two.

Joanna Doxey

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Unfruitful

I think through how I am opposite of fruit,

then move on from my body

to the missing coyotes’ cries.

Our nightly walks

unearth such absence.

 

The newly built houses

in the former coyote field

are also beautiful at night,

empty beacons —

Desire depends on what is not there

yet. I no longer write of snow because there’s none this year.

 

We listen for the owls, too.

My thoughts are my body

yet disrupt my body, thread the missing, stitch un to fallow fields, to the beginning

of everything–

Fruit begins with emptied follicles, echoes.

How every night we must

walk the dog, oh       how we create time,

walking these ghost fields,

unfruitful.

Annual Review

Still –           we’re here talking around goals

as if the terminal edges

are not retreating

inward           as if

the mind could still wander

beyond this beige room.

This year and the last and I can be summed up as a beige room,
as a beige room full of sighs

also –

time calculated in heartbeats and dollars
both mine and beyond mine
still beating and silenced,           lungs and lungs
beating lungs, sonograms
sound seeking light,
a cry looking for its echo –

My mind is blue –
to use an image you’ll understand.
My mind is most itself in the lung-heart      the inner ear
of a glacier, slowing its pace,
calming its walk.           The slowest interval
needed
to
still
be
alive.

This is my goal.

Winter: Trying to Learn Sign Language

I’m trying to learn sign language
knowing I’ve forgotten words in other forms.
My palms grasp uncertain futures.

Finally, some snow –

My mind goes there,           the space between

sky and marcescent hands     –           future hope

& inevitable melt

What is winter now.

I have forgotten to check on the disappeared,
I build     I try     but still I forget
what my body held –

Each day, I walk past the decaying squirrel and tell no one,
until now
& the dead squirrel becomes ours to share. Here:

My students hand the words I give them back to me,
leave them on slips of paper, throw them away,
leave
the room full
of silence.

The motion for failure is fingers sweeping
the palm – brushing away all I hold.

Still.         Still, the possibility that my palms can hold language.

Full Sentence

I.

My body like thunder across the field
like thinking                like thunder
across the grove          beyond the sky —    my mind
I think,           now the lightning           now –

I try to name the trees, the grass, the soil.
Words hold me, containers of hope
limbs sway,

thunder &
I’m trying to tell you
I’m grasping for connection
tendons           rhizomes
All I have are shards
of an imprecise mind.

II.

Tell me a poem                Tell me a good poem
& I will ask you again –

What is the tree’s name, the one I love?
The deep bark grooves, her sky seeking fingers
birdfull

Say: elm      and I will love you
forever, like a poem
like a memory

III.

even the sentence sieves,
yields to the pressure of holding meaning
there is no perfect body
I
feel whole
I
fragment
I
outside
return
inward
whole

what is it to ruin
meaning or soil
or

perfect fragment
I ask so much to be held in you
my heart
I hold I ask:
tiny egg, why
are you not heart-centered, why do we not say by ova, by way of follicle
by bud and love

I used to look to stars, no
constellations
(how impossible to take the sky in
we must fragment, sift sight)

Now, I’m lost in body now
return to navel
thinking through the pieces
thought decomposes
singularly
wholeness is a myth

Try,
a full sentence
 

Thank you

We won’t name
in the end,
In the end, take away language that looks backward.
In the end, even the birds are vague –

In the end of love,
for example,
it’s enough to say not,
it’s enough to say
was and knew
and yesterday.
There is an end and you are there –
there will be a bird
whose name I don’t know
but whom I will love.

Quietly enough the Stellar’s jay does not startle,
we walked, yesterday.

There was a misunderstanding when I said love
and you returned it.

Thank you.

Joanna Doxey is the author of the poetry book Plainspeak, WY (Platypus Press, 2016) as well as poems appearing in South Dakota Review, Small Orange, Interim Poetics, Ghost Proposal, Denver Quarterly, and others. Her manuscript, Unfruitful, is the recipient of the Fledge Chapbook Award, and will be published by Middle Creek Publishing in 2026. She currently teaches ecopoetry and creative writing for the Honors, English, and Interdisciplinary Liberal Arts Departments at Colorado State University. With her human and other-than-human family, she lives in Fort Collins, CO.

Charles Bernstein

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Aesthetic Theory

the purposelessness
of no
purpose doesn’t
have a
purpose just
like the
sublime’s got
no punch
line but
spiked with
absinthe
and twists
of lime
the punch
‘ll get
you every
time

For Régis and Pierre

they say
a door
slams closed
& another
opens, but
isn’t it
a door
shuts &
then another

Deictic [Deistic]

What do you mean by that?

This?

Charles Bernstein is the author, most recently, of The Kinds of Poetry I Want: Essays and Comedies (University of Chicago Press, 2024), Topsy-Turvy (Chicago, 2021) and Pitch of Poetry (Chicago, 2016). His work was the subject of The Poetry of Idiomatic Insistences, edited by Paul Bové, the Fall 2021 issue of boundary 2. With Davide Balula, he wrote a series of AI-generated poems published as Poetry Has No Future Unless It Comes to an End (2023).

Gary Sloboda

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cenotaph

our eyes enlarge behind the lenses of our glasses. coats out of season and heels worn out. like prisoners at the moment before release. we are held so tightly. and the tall buildings’ windows once dazed by the river. glare down tonight at our home. of pressed wood and carpenter’s glue. glitter paint job in the moonlight. and our belongings piled everywhere. as if we’re about to or will never leave.

taurus

i was distressed. voices of others landed in our conversations like spores. when we stood on the curb. its scattered jagged glass reflected the years to come. and our mutiny of life’s more gentle features: hollering on the street like it’s the end of the world. and on the walkway of the bridge. how the form of our breath ascended. like the ghosts of pigeons. floating through the city. and the stars fetchingly arranged.

renewal

the intention was always there until it wasn’t. moon glow on the balcony before eviction. i stared across at the alley peppered with bugs and struggle. without a holler or alarm to catfish my attention. i stood there as if standing in line. to be written out or scripted. the last tenant’s plastic plants gathered tightly on the sill. and left for the next one to leave. as they were left for me.

sunfish

i’m made in the same way. shambling out of the stale fungal scent of my books. through the rusted gate that leads to the cellar. or the courtyard the lobotomized belltower looks down upon. where bullets whine when creditors arrive. in a ripple of wind that once laid down on the sea. people are moving towards me. their arms wide open and slightly animatronic across the concrete. and they hold me against the tides of refusal. as we taste the first light of the day.

memorial 2

the decades of ellipses tracked us home. it’s broken now but weighs the same. and the same emotions linger. pelican wedge overhead. like the hillside cemetery flags fly. we stumble with our bags. as the last days’ dark melodies unwind from passing cars. in the salt pinch of the waves that corrodes the metal railings. along the walls of rock where the ocean begins. and goes on forever.

Gary Sloboda’s work has recently appeared in such places as Blackbox Manifold, Twyckenham Notes, and Word For/ Word. He lives in San Francisco.

Bryan Price

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Light coming over the mountain

I.

you are dead but light keeps
coming over the mountain
as you awaken from life you
realize that the mountain is a line

and the light is everything else
no color or substance
nothing but clarity for the
last few moments of finitude

II.

there is a thing Adorno said
about poetry and yet I go on
returning to it reading about
beds into tombs reading about so

much death among future ruins
a lilac a little finger a grain of sand
dust into dust but the light
keeps coming over the mountain

The mystery of transubstantiation

the wine smells like grass again and vice-versa

when I say ghosts I mean his inglorious past

his oiled boots reminded me of gun grease

he shot the lights out once—sunsets made the

age of angels immaterial but we’d sit and watch

planes crash into the mountains we’d burn

tires in order to fuck with the satellites and when

he gave us his teeth we sharpened them on

a landmine the shape and color of a new moon

The libra archive

one cannot conjure out of thin air or the dead blue leaves
cannot make or break cannot hit or beat with belt
cannot swim or shower cleanse bathe or soak in acid
cannot put plastic into effluvial veins one
cannot ride or rail or with tongue the color of snail put napalm
in the black-as-night shoes of a former lover
the street weeps inchoate the sky falls in dribs and drabs
summer summons suicide summer summons situation-comedies
about certain simulacrums concerning the immutability
of young parasitic love one cannot conjure lovelorn mindless
mind-numbing mindfuck gyrate to gunplay cannot do so
clandestinely without what I’ve heard referred to simply as the
gadget one cannot wear black theoretical tightrope-walker’s shoes
and just walk into the distance between hazel and hazelnut

Bryan Price is the author of A Plea for Secular Gods: Elegies (What Books, 2023). His stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Noon Annual, Chicago Quarterly Review, EPOCH, Dialogist, and elsewhere. He lives in San Diego, California.

Stephen Paul Miller

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For David Shapiro (1947-2024)

I can already see the wall around
paradise lifting

Ecstatic,
I know no difference

between heaven
and this moment,

your garden
and a bell,

a violin and going crazy.

Angel Boss

I wake up ‘n
see
my mother
pulling off my sheet

I look straight ahead
and see my births
layered in
crystal.

I close my eyes
and see
my angel boss
ordering

me around your
sonnet factory.

A Living Force Field

is holding your hand. Turn around.
Here comes the east. A pool
player frets and struts
watching your footsteps
heart in hand over a new aura
some time when you have time.

Around

All the dead
are like a dachshund
following you around.

Tide

She asks
me if
I can
identify

a particular moment.

You mean
the moment, I answer,

when I

become the cliff I hover over

and time goes out with the
tide.

Yes, she

says,

that’s the moment.

Stephen Paul Miller’s nine poetry books include Beautiful Snacks (Marsh Hawk, Fall 2026), and his critical books include The Seventies Now (Duke University Press). He’s co-edited Radical Poetics and Secular Judaism and New Work on New York School Poets. His poems appear in Best American Poetry 2023, 1994 and surrealist and Jewish American anthologies. He was a Senior Fulbright Scholar at Jagiellonian University, Kraków, Poland, and he’s a Professor of English at St. John’s University, NYC.

Mia Ayumi Malhotra

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If With You

i look and you tell me to look and i look
—Laura Walker

Walk so silently that the bottoms of your feet become ears.
—Pauline Oliveros

I.

If I walked with you      on a dimly lit afternoon.
If we descended      a scrub hillside,   the air fine
& dry—      where would the trail lead?
A thousand leaves      lying on the floor—
a thousand      leaves

II.


If we made our way      past lichens & bearded moss.
If what looks like bittersweet hangs    in spangled vines.
A handful of acorns, waxy & wood brown.
On another coast,    acres of shaded farmland—
maples flaming      in autumnal red.

III.

If I followed you      to where the trees thin—
sheep without a shepherd,      no goatherd to be seen,
cracked earth      welt & bone      switchbacks & brittle grass,
bearded heads      bent     to the ground
If they lift not a single head      at our passing.

IV.

If I lay myself    among the bracken fern
beside tangled roots      & understory—
longing    sweat      goatherd

V.

If with you    I find    my way into silence      & back again.

VI.

If with you every leaf      is an instrument—
every oak      a song      If with you I become
the trail itself—      sweat & muscle      dry heat.
If my mind parches—      & my mouth
dirt    dirt      shade me    dry— the sun

VII.

& the land’s uneven      tempo,
oak-laden forest      &   scrubland,
the trail’s      wandering score.

VIII.

If my heart narrows, then circles around.

IX.

If first one leads, then the other—      you, me
then you again—      alternating along the path,
your steady footfall—      & mine, echoed
across chaparral—      a sound    I might
not hear,    if I weren’t already      listening

X.

If we cut across miles of scrub oak      whisked
leaves & surface      forest dim      light filtered
& wide      If we pause to listen—      sound poured
round our head      every leaf & stem, trembling—
If the forest      shook my mind      a mountain wind
falling on trees    crowns billowing in late afternoon.

XI.

hard-packed earth   & dappled light      it sings
sun-bleached grasses      it sings      twining wood-
bine & honeysuckle      it sings      underbrush
& speckled leaf—      shall dance    & sing

________________________________________

This pastoral sequence derives much of its form and language from Forrest Gander’s Twice Alive, Sappho’s If Not, Winter (trans. Anne Carson), the book of Psalms and Laura Walker’s psalmbook, Obi Kaufmann’s The California Field Atlas, Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh, and, of course, the coast live oak scrublands of Northern California.

Wave Organ II

& seated by a window  at first  she might  keep the feeling  at bay
maybe  take a breath or two  & staring at the glass   the ocean’s
vast flattening  & release   in the corner of her mind  a little tug
not a self  she can look   in the eye   body blurring  in  & out  of focus
though  in the presence  of this little one   she might feel  her own
frequency  slow  to a steady whoosh   & the little one  sensing this  shift
might draw nearer  & they might find themselves entering  into phase
all around them  the feeling  of a great heart  beating   or she might
be out walking with a friend  who might turn to her  & say describe that
sadness   a sudden flush rising  behind the eyes  or under the skin
a bruised color  surfaced in the face of the lake  lifting & lapping
gravelly shore    a lake is not  an ocean  she might think to herself
but a body  surrounded on all sides     with this new safety a person
could navigate this  glittery self-contained life  & never  drown

 

positInkSpash131210.small

 

under     the skin
that bruised color
surfacing

describe that     sadness

she     might say
a tenderness
rising

behind the    eyes

 

positInkSpash131210.small

 
body     blurring in
and out o f focus

two selves     rhythms
beating
against
each other

a great    heart
pulsing

around them        like the sea

Wave Organ V

& later    making her way along the harbor    around cement blocks    bits    of broken masonry
strewn across the jetty    she might sit    with a hand to her forehead    shielding herself from
the sun’s glare    as it reflects    the ocean’s brilliance    its foamy spray    catching    & releasing
the children    playing along the water’s edge    it could swallow them at any second    she might
think to herself    watching their lithe bodies tumble    in   & out of the surf    but no day is
without its movement    she might say to herself    reaching down    to brush    the sand from her
ankles    stopping to press her ear against the pipe    angled    into the ocean    like a periscope
listening to its open-mouthed whoosh    she might hear something    of the body’s origins
its rhythmic thunks & gurgles    the tide going out & coming back    empty masts of sailboats
bobbing along the dock    & the sky’s limitless blue    & in the distance    the lighthouse    in its
immovable clarity    keeping watch over all aspects    of the sea    an unlit eye staring    in six
directions at once    & the murmur of waves in the air    the pull of some immeasurable depth
drawing her    into the restless    element of her    own interior    its lively    & perpetual    music

 

positInkSpash131210.small

 

at the water’s     edge
sea
the sky
the waves

its     foamy     white     spray

 

positInkSpash131210.small

 

pulling her

deeper
in     her
infinitude
a restless blue     that

spreads     and spreads

the sea’s     steady music
rocking her
from     within

 

positInkSpash131210.small

 

O
sea

resonant
its      music
surge and return

tide
going out     empty
and     coming back
whole

Mia Ayumi Malhotra is the author of Mothersalt (Alice James Books, 2025) and Isako Isako, a California Book Award finalist and winner of the Alice James Award, Nautilus Gold Award, and Maine Literary Award. She is also the author of the chapbook Notes from the Birth Year. Currently Mia lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and is a 2025-2026 Distinguished Visiting Writer at Saint Mary’s College of California.

Ma Yongbo

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Night Stay by Gongchen Bridge

Two dark red painted boats bring dusk from upstream,
moored for a long time, emitting smoke, like two dowries
waiting to be opened, barges carrying sand and stone
pass under the bridge arch, almost soundlessly,
under the bow light, a few white plastic boxes
nurturing flowers, someone in love, unmoved by the flowing water.

Fine rain wets the lanterns, no one rides a donkey in the drizzle,
passing through doors and gates, no one ties a lean horse under the willow tree,
unfolds poetry scrolls and dark swords from yellow parcels,
how many old things along the riverbank are hidden by the willow colours?
They only emit faint light and sighs when there is no one in the deep night.

But there will still be someone waking up against the wall,
what he supports just waits for him to fall,
like a dead end filled with miniature landscapes,
at the southern end of the canal, those irregular heads
shine like lights, instinctively pure.

I can’t have a life as long as a river,
the skeletons of moths revolve around my silent brain.
Don’t regret, just turn off the lights,
this is your night, this is the world’s way,
autumn rain is still falling in the darkness,
still disappearing into the waters of the Grand Canal.

News of the Snow

In my hometown, snowfall
is a frequent occurrence,
those I asked about the news of snow
have vanished deep within the hometown,
just like snow vanishing into the sky.

And then, cold seeps from a single word,
like frost emanating from within a stone.
Some people returned, exhaling air,
nameless yet oddly familiar.

Because snowfall, in my hometown,
is a frequent occurrence,
as if riding in a car, the road seems to be rushing towards you,
rough landscapes are illuminated,
only to be engulfed by endless darkness moments later.

Sleeping on the Street

Step by step, you step along snowflake stairs
down to the street; often, the street
is a deep black river,
you are on the riverbed, flickering like a failing signal.

Snowflakes gather around your head
like the final tribute to a thought
continuously surprising you, wherever you go,
like a jellyfish stirring up dust – it takes a lifetime to be born.

These snowflakes in the dark
are the remnants of everything you touch,
transmitted to you through your fingertips;
it seems that you are always the uncertainty they crave.

Inch by inch, you lose your skin,
blood, bones; you become the wind without nerves,
beyond the ancient struggle between being and nothingness.
You rise again, like snowflakes from the depths,
no-longer flickering awake
but falling asleep again; relaxed and nameless.

Ma Yongbo, Ph.D was born in 1964. A representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, he is a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He has published over eighty original books and translations since 1986, including 9 poetry collections. His translation included the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, Ashbery, and Rosanna Warren. His complete translation of Moby Dick has sold over 600,000 copies.

Joseph Lease

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Wake

 

we have this chance, when the sun opens

all the doors, somebody died, someone

lost the answers in the night sky, don’t

say it, don’t say that, I tried to be in the

 

space, I made the plastic capsule, we’ll

come running, daydreams in hand,

there’s less now, just, there are fewer,

fewer minutes, fewer useable minutes, I

 

was dazzled by the words, I couldn’t

read them, be specific, say place names,

Cambridge, Southie, Providence, place

names don’t place me in my life, he said

 

when I was a kid, when I was your age,

when I was this, when I was that, there

was no room for me, we got used to it,

we are getting used

 

to it, we fall upon the thorns of life, we

bleed, and this pen, this notepad, he left

pages and pages, key words, he left I’m

not the man I think I am at home,

 

make the sound of some dying mouth,

give me back my life, give back what

once you gave, so they gave you the

earth, or they said they did, the earth said

 

remember me, I was trying to stay sane

in the other pages of the book, I am

respectable, what passes for respectable,

we are quite literally here, draw the sign

 

in the corner of the page, return to the

breath, he just doubled down and tripled

down on knowing the names of flowers,

he seemed to come out of nowhere,

 

filling the page with light, the page as

slab of light, work was my salvation he

said, get to work, get back to work, we are

the people who mask, look, a picture of a

 

blackberry, why can I remember that, so

I’m writing to you again, I guess I’m

saying anything and everything, how can

you leave me, how could you die, I know

 

you wanted to see him again, what did it

feel like to pass over, to go there, oh, how

I’d love to be in that number, turning the

paper this way and that, I want you to

 

read this and imagine me: in Berkeley,

in Chicago, drinking tea, eating apples,

walking slowly in the blustery day, the

day was full of talking animals

 

The Buried Life

 
(head full
of
plastic
(“you can

 

be anything
you put
your mind
to” (are

 

we
extinct?
(colors burn
like garbage

 

on fire
(we
shoot
cows in

 

the head
(the wind-
washed
air

 

(roses
(bones
(bones and
dirt

 

and (we’re
waiting to
die (we’re
waiting to

 

pray (God
the rabbit
afraid
(God the

 

cat
dying (God
are not
my days

 

few (rain
side-
ways
(redwoods

 

(on
fire (horses
on
fire

 

Joseph Lease’s critically acclaimed books include Fire Season (Chax Press, 2023) and Broken World (Coffee House Press, 2007). Lease’s new book, Now What, winner of the Philip Whalen Award, will be published by Chax Press. Lease’s poems “‘Broken World’ (For James Assatly)” and “Send My Roots Rain” were anthologized in Postmodern American Poetry: A Norton Anthology. Lease’s poem “‘Broken World’ (For James Assatly)” was anthologized in The Best American Poetry 2002 (Robert Creeley, Guest Editor).