It must be the wind
that tears holes in the sky,
holes we can't see, hidden
behind clouds, we so unsuspecting...

holes that eat the sweet bread
of our morning, sully the yellow
noon, soil the transparencies
of evening, then pilfer the moon,

until all that is left is the passageway
to night and our incredulity, as we
try to fathom the rent sky and a world
that has stumbled into war.

back to Issue 37

Of Some Renown

For some time now, I have
lived anonymously. No one
appears to think it odd.
They think the old are,
well, what they seem. Yet
see that great egret

at the marsh's edge, solitary,
still? Mere pretense
that stillness. His silence is
a lie. In his own pond he is
of some renown, a stalker,
a catcher of fish. Watch him.

Overcast

The day, of no great merit,
ended—a dandelion gone to seed,
minutes squandered, hours spent,
no bright gold. Yet in the ledgered

plainness of the day, overcast, common,
some subtle brush of meaning
held me. Was it those unexpected
words of thanks, or the single lilac

plunged in a paper cup,
there on a stranger's desk?
Something, a fragrance,
lingered well past dusk.

back to Issue 34