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As the resident artist at EcoHealth, I pen verse these days inspired by the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at Amerika-Institut of LMU München, where I edit a weekly circular on poetry, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach English, tutor composition, and lead a literary circle.


Not Wings

by Carrie Etter

I stumble over the stone angel´s song,
ply her ever-open mouth with tempered
heresy and blushing wit. I lack wings,
have a knack for ascent, how to hover.

I relish belief in an unheard song
and try to refuse to bargain, tempered
by doubt. The lake blues in the wake of wings.
I almost see. This is how I hover,

poised at the bank in a vestige of song.
I listen to the absence. Doubt´s tempered
when faith enjoys its fetters. No, not wings.
A pair of feet--mine--stand where I hover.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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