{"id":2966,"date":"2017-02-23T15:24:50","date_gmt":"2017-02-23T15:24:50","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=2966"},"modified":"2017-02-26T20:51:07","modified_gmt":"2017-02-26T20:51:07","slug":"barbara-campbell-winter-2017","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/barbara-campbell-winter-2017\/","title":{"rendered":"Barbara Campbell, Winter 2017"},"content":{"rendered":"

Hopper\u2019s \u201cSummer Evening, 1947\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

You were just another
\ncrowd in a face.<\/p>\n

I gave you a mile and all you took
\nwas an inch.<\/p>\n

I should have known
\nloose lips\u2014kissing the universal<\/p>\n

language like math.
\nIt boils down<\/p>\n

to the countenance
\nof numbers, one\u2019s place.<\/p>\n

Now, the formalities\u2014crust
\nthat will carry the bread.<\/p>\n

Stars scratch the night sky
\nand mosquitoes still want<\/p>\n

blood though the porch light
\ncasts pallor.<\/p>\n

White curtains haunt
\nthe evening breeze<\/p>\n

and your song
\nfrom my living room window<\/p>\n

still plays even after
\nyour car pulls away<\/p>\n

from the curb.<\/p>\n

When there\u2019s nothing<\/strong><\/p>\n

I write
\nto the end
\nof the page.
\nLife
\nexpands
\nby relation.
\nUp close
\nthings
\nmay appear
\nfar away
\nlike cells
\nunder
\na microscope
\nresemble
\ngalaxies
\nand a lover\u2019s
\ngaze
\na black hole.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Barbara Campbell currently lives in Berkeley, CA. Her first poetry chapbook entitled, “The Invention of Life”<\/em> was published in 2015 by Finishing Line Press and her poems have appeared in Tule Review, Poetry Now, Full of Crow, Breakwater Review<\/em> and other literary journals.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Hopper\u2019s \u201cSummer Evening, 1947\u201d You were just another crowd in a face. I gave you a mile and all you took was an inch. I should have known loose lips\u2014kissing the universal language like math. It boils down to the countenance of numbers, one\u2019s place. Now, the formalities\u2014crust that will carry the bread. Stars scratch […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-2966","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nBarbara Campbell, Winter 2017 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/barbara-campbell-winter-2017\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Barbara Campbell, Winter 2017 - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Hopper\u2019s \u201cSummer Evening, 1947\u201d You were just another crowd in a face. I gave you a mile and all you took was an inch. 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