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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.


To Night

by Thomas Lovell Beddoes

So thou art come again, old black-winged night,
  Like an huge bird, between us and the sun,
Hiding with out-stretched form the genial light;
  And still beneath thine icy bosom's dun
And cloudy plumage hatching fog-breathed blight
  And embryo storms and crabbed frosts, that shun
Day's warm caress. The owls from ivied loop
  Are shrieking homage, as thou towerest high;
Like sable crow pausing in eager stoop
  On the dim world thou gluttest thy clouded eye,
Silently waiting latest time's fell whoop,
  When thou shalt quit thine eyrie in the sky,
    To pounce upon the world with eager claw,
    And tomb time, death, and substance in thy maw.

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