On Opening a Book of Photographs
I look at them until I feel immune,

a pile of bodies photographed by Lee

Miller, nineteen forty-five, their strewn

limbs, at first random, now obviously

framed — four legs, like spokes, ray out

across the page. That checkered rag — a dress,

maybe, or only a piece of cloth — I doubt

it covers a woman. The others’ sex

is easy: they’re men; their faces, and

two exposed penises, nested in shadowed

groins, look tender, peaceful, like that hand

curled on a chest, as if it knows

where it rests. But it doesn’t. However I

tell this, they’re not redeemed. There they lie.

Man on a Corner
The man with the golden retriever is still sitting

Against the bank’s brick wall on his blanket, while

all along the street the store owners are quitting,

a florist carrying in bouquets, the mild

fragrance of the flowers a brief antidote

to the exhaust of a bus, just releasing

its passengers; they swirl around him, like notes

of some random music, scattering in the increasing

dusk. Now the prone dog lifts its head

and looks at him, as though a sudden thought’s

occurred to it; the man still slumps, dead

or dreaming, figure in a drama not

of the dog’s making, but all it knows

of love; it shifts, sighs, lays its head close.

Kim Addonizio is the author of two novels, two books about writing poetry, and several collections of poetry, one of which, Tell Me, was a National Book Award finalist. These two contemporary sonnets are from Kim Addonizio’s collection The Philosopher’s Club, published by BOA Editions and reprinted by permission.