Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake,
up to my neck in that most precious element of all,
I found the pale gray curled-upwards pigeon feather
floating on the tension of the water
at the very instant when a dragonfly’
like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin
hovered over it, then lit, and rested.
That’s all.
I mentioned this in the same way
that I fold the corner of a page
in certain library books,
so that the next reader will know
where to look for the good parts.
—in the words of New York Times reviewer Dwight Garner:
“At his frequent best … Hoagland is demonically in touch
with the American demotic.”
