Author: Mark Doty

Today the Masons are auctioning Their discarded pomp: a trunk of turbans, Gemmed and ostrich-plumed, and operetta costumes Labeled inside […]

This salt-stain spot Marks the place where men Lay down their heads, Back to the bench, And hoist nothing That […]

My salt marsh -mine, I call it, because These day-hammered fields Of dazzled horizontals Undulate, summers, Inside me and out- […]

When I heard he had entered the harbor, And circled the wharf for days, I expected the worst: shallow water, […]

Because the road to our house Is a back road, meadowlands punctuated By gravel quarry and lumberyard, There are unexpected […]