Boston Review — Corina Copp: Poet’s Sampler




The roses kill her with no sign of stopping
effulgence. Vase optics from a looming in fact
out of scale. Milk-glass vase my glance fell on
swanned, for a dissolving optician owns
plexiglas in every light, maps without
exception areas of land where a horse runs
kind of looking for us, a sonata effulgent in
fact helps gardening if we want. We gaze at
vanishing, with nothing on I’ve never seen a
floor so verdure except in person. Picasso:
A miracle not to melt in the bathtub, like a
lump of sugar.