A weekly poem, read by the author.
Jan. 10 2001 3:00 AM


The surface cool. No movement but the feeling
Of movement—until one lurches, caught.


Two children in a snow cave laughing.

Or in leaves. The valley unfolding
In the middle distance, vineyard, sheaves, and

The one—where is it?—of the rock, the field.
Wood bulldozed down and somewhere in the rubble

(Dark, never to be discovered) the book
We hid between the rafters and forgot about. For years—

Cold air blowing off the water, empty shells.

Men casting lines and catching—who could tell
From distances like these? The night

We walked almost the whole length
Of the city. Or slept unharmed

Beneath a blanket of smoke. The one—who else
Would know?—of water indistinguishable

From sky, the room behind us, unmade bed
—A book of photographs where

  News & Politics
March 31 2015 5:00 AM How the Founder of the Fugees Became a Big-Time Political Donor Without Anyone Knowing The musical artist chose to fund a super PAC through opaque, legal, and increasingly popular means.
  Slate Plus
March 30 2015 11:32 AM The “How Does a U.N. Official Work?” Transcript What’s it like to manage the U.N.’s Ebola response? Read a transcript of Adam Davidson’s conversation with the assistant secretary-general for field support.