I went so deeply into the dream,
it might have been a different future.
La vita nuova seeded in an old frame.
Some say three, others nine. Varro claimed
one was born of water, another played daylight
like wind, invisible as the airs on Caliban’s isle.
A third made a home of the human voice singing.
Dear Hesiod, perhaps it wasn’t the Muses
you glimpsed on sodden farm fields:
barefoot, sopping wet—
but just a few village girls and cousins.
This month’s poetry feature showcases work from new books by our contributors.
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