top of page

2 poems by Evan Goldstein

Winter Song

After the frost, you said, the lemon trees

did not bear lemons. I tell you there is music

in the phrase, but lately you don’t hear it.

I can only tell you what I’ve seen:

Here is where the echo of your voice

hits the wall and scatters. After the washout,

how I find my way to you depends

on the way to you.

In the morning the sun is golden

on the hard snow in the yard, angling

between dim-lit houses and still trees.

I haven’t spoken, but I will when the dark-eyed junco

nesting in the boxwood scratches out its warning

as cooper’s hawk settles in the coal pit beside me.

Millennium Park

The day turns gray on the salt-white street, but the sparrow lingers

She came even though she knew the bus was running earlier and earlier

Now the highway takes us over the ridge where the cedars bend

In the puddle, where the deer drinks from its own reflection

Our faces are in shadow, but the tungsten streetlight bleaches her hair

I have no money, so the man ringing the bell takes our conversation down

At the sea, we photograph the flat water drawing out into the sound

She places the knife beside the rosemary cutting and closes her eyes to hum

In Chicago, she remembers the mountains, and the lake lifts like a window opening


Evan Goldstein is a poet from upstate New York. He received his BA from SUNY Geneseo, and he currently studies poetry at the Iowa Writers' Workshop.


bottom of page