An anthology of Fanny Howe (1940-) selected poems has been quietly haunting me for months. Here is just one of the many gems.
You travel a path on paper
and discover you’re in a city
you only thought about before.
It’s a Sunday marketplace. Parakeets and finches
are placed on the stones
and poppies in transparent wrapping.
How can you be where you never were?
And how can you find the way–with your mind
your only measure?