Brenda Hillman’s poem Arroy on hand at The Missouri Review is nicely rendered. Here’s a small taste:
Now she sees the dry ditch
as it is:
the glint of litter,
chrome of the abandoned fender,
how all things unloved, rushed, pushed out
to the great sea against their will survive,
and sees behind the broken feldspar
the expert shabbiness of daily life.
I like this terrain, this narrator, and this child about to step into the world.