Poems by Carol Dorf

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Heavy Roses, France, 1914

by Carol Dorf

From Canary Winter 2014-15

Carol lives between Strawberry Creek and Schoolhouse Creek where they pass on their way from the Berkeley hills into the San Francisco Bay.

A cluster of blown-out roses,
and by that I mean, roses
a moment past what we imagine
perfection, roses on the way
to fruit, the way a rosebush
will hold the bright red hips
all the way through winter,
resource for the birds, and other
wild things that share the garden.
Steichen's roses of the moment,
roses in black and white.

The A of the B

by Carol Dorf

From Canary Fall 2011

The A of the B
has little to do with taking off our hats
and walking through the double doors. So many
things occur when we aren't there to write
notes. Subspecies unfold from DNA
mishaps, and millions of years go by before
we arrive to pay any attention.

Like the way London sparrows were blacker
than their rural cousins. Actually
that happened pretty quickly: punctuated.
Close enough that encountering the other
could lead to something, to offspring. Now
the black fogs have dissipated; and the sparrows?

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