by Philip Booth
from his collection entitled Lifelines Three zeros coming up, as the odometer turns toward its new thousand. Old movies, cars, pushing 2002, the number maybe we'll get to, maybe we'll not. As if numbers were our destination, as if we weren't close to lost. As if it didn't matter how we've already poisoned the planet, invaded lovers, born generations of micro- chips, wired our lives to suicide bombs, and still told ourselves, year after penultimate year, that there will be survivors, that we'll be the heroes who'll last.
by Robert Bly
from his collection entitled Morning Poems
I'd like to have spent my life making Clothespins. Nothing would be harmed, Except some pines, probably on land I owned and would replant. I'd see My work on clotheslines near some lake, Up north on a day in October, Perhaps twelve clothespins, the wood Still fresh, and a light wind blowing.