The Chimney
Just a Thought
The Fellow Who Falls
The Nerve
A Crow Can Go
The President’s Tailor
On Holly & Cornwall
Hiding in Woods & Water
The Chalk Drawn Word
End of Story
Waiting for the End of Story
What Good?
Inside Inside
Poor Spot
After Dawn As Told
Miracles
Like Sparrows Following Him
Wherever He Went
The Titanic Shadow
The Float
Blessing Creatures
So It Goes
The Sticker
Foggy Day
The Vanisher
The Dummy Family
Poe at the Zoo
The President’s Mirrors
Empire At Work
How Come?
Sam the Canary
Birdsongs
The Wooden Trombone
We Are Together
City Under Fire
The Lucky Halibut
From There
Franklin Lilacs
Pheasant’s Violin
One Way Suit
Bassoon Room
The Numbers
Wurlitzer Porch
The Rock Thrower
The Cold Wall
Bicycle Sail
Migrating Birds
The Talking Dog Store
Phinneas
11/29
The Teether
Anyone’s Poems
The World Awaits
A Goodbye Arm
My Illusion
The Infinite Telescope
Wake Up Saint
The Goodwill Industries
Fred Again
I Know
The Visions
Only One
A Little Spark
The Chimney
Widow Templin thought she could dry her clothes
by the light of the full moon. So she was a fool, so she did
these kinds of things. That’s how she happened to see
what happened next.
She was out in the morning rain trying to pull all
the wet laundry into a basket when she noticed the blur
on the roof, across the distance, over there.
It was quick to freeze. It looked like a chimney.
She stared at it until she and the basket full of clothes
had soaked up the rain. Slowly it occurred to her that
she must have been seeing things.
She went inside to get dry. Three hours later,
the rain clouds passed, she came outside. She stopped
on the sidewalk. She stared across the space. On top of
the roof the chimney was gone.
Just a Thought
Just a thought
as I go out
carrying the trash
to the can
behind the fence
Aware of everything
the black ocean
overhead stars
the gleam of Mars
I hope and believe
nobody is watching
my task out here
in my underwear
The Fellow Who Falls
When the sun goes down
pulling all that yellow
into a crisp red blanket
he falls over flat
the weight of the day
too much to bear
The Nerve
Out in the barn
looking for a socket set
I can’t find anywhere
I brush against
something that claws
in the dimness
It takes a moment
to realize what it is
a creeper of blackberry
a good ten feet long
hanging from the ceiling
where it’s crawled inside
and sprouted leaves
In the pale light
of the window glass
I can’t find clippers
or scissors in sight
but a hunting knife
dull and rusty will do
So the vine can’t bite
I need something
to hold the thorns
a torn piece of cardboard
folded over to grip
it let me cut the nerve
of the unwelcome guest
A Crow Can Go
The ground used to be
like the air where
there aren’t any roads
and a crow can go
wherever the wind blows
The President’s Tailor
Arnold Nusfelder was in the limelight at last.
His long climb up the ladder had taken him from humble
beginnings, shop on the corner, tailor to the neighborhood,
then the gangsters, then the stars and finally to the president
himself. But what seemed like an American success story
of movie proportions suddenly stalled one October night.
That evening, the president sent some men over to discuss
the situation.
“What? Who are you?” Arnold yelped as he was pushed
back into his house.
The other big guy in the black suit slammed the door
while Arnold felt himself guided towards his living room. His
feet weren’t touching the floor, he kicked them like a puppet
as the carpet flashed by.
The television program about animals continued as if
nothing strange was happening on the other side of the screen.
A lion took down a deer.
“What do you want?”
“Are you Mr. Nusfelding?”
“Nusfelder. I’m Arnold Nusfelder,” the trembling man
replied.
The two men froze for a moment. Maybe they’re in the
wrong house, Arnold prayed. Sure, he tried to smile, that was
it, and he pointed, “Nice suits you boys got. Can I see the sleeve?”
Arnold jumped as the sleeve shot at him and caught him
around the neck.
“You a tailor?”
“Yes,” he coughed. “I’m just a tailor.”
“He’s the guy alright,” said the other goon who closed in
on Arnold too.
“Please! Don’t hurt me!” Arnold begged. “I’ll give you a
refund, a free fitting.” He flinched as the arm not holding him
reached into the fold of the dark black suit. Arnold closed his
eyes and prepared for lights out.
“Look at this. Hey! Read this speech.”
The hands let go of Arnold and he slumped into the sofa.
“What is it?” Arnold gasped.
“Read.”
With shaking fingers, the tailor turned on the lamp beside
him and raised the note to his eyes. He put on his reading glasses.
He read. The two hired men menaced the lamplight.
“This is crazy…” he stammered. “What is this? Why am I
supposed to read this?”
“Like I told you. This is your speech.”
The other man jabbed a boxer’s fist at the tv set. “Didn’t
you watch the debate tonight? Did you see the president’s suit?”
“Yes! Yes, he looked great wearing that suit!” Arnold
waved the note like a butterfly collector. “That’s my best suit.
That other guy looked like a peddler!”
“Listen…” the giant who had held Arnold with crushing
force leaned down to breathe on him again. “That suit you made
got him in a lot of trouble. This is your speech. Memorize it.”
“Then tell the camera,” the partner said stonily.
The way they glared at him there was nothing Arnold
Nusfelder could say.
This speech would be the end of him…he imagined the
guild’s response…his customers…everything he had built up
over the years would crash down.
The front door shut with a chop. The room was a ticking
clock on the mantel. Sam the canary hopped onto his swing.
Arnold put his hands over his face to hold his temples. The
phone began to ring.
On Holly & Cornwall
On Holly & Cornwall
right there on the corner
fifty years ago
a truck was parked
and a crowd
gathered on the curb
to boo and cheer
the driver tossing fruit
out to the street
the boy would try
to catch if he could
standing in rinds
and red sweet
watermelon
Hiding In Woods & Water
A rabbit leaped
into the underbrush
and put on the colors
browns and shadows
to disappear
I remember
last weekend
in these woods
an owl flew over
without a sound
and landed sentry
on a tree overhead
We crossed the creek
stirred up a noise
hiding in water
a gray heron
combing through
the tall reeds
The Chalk Drawn Word
It had been years since Dr. Biocal was seen.
If he was a bolt of iron, he would have been
rusted into the shallow roots of trees, covered
with a blanket of leaves and cold topsoil. Instead
he could be found inside a college classroom,
wearing fall colored tweed and corduroy. He stood
in front of a precisely drawn chalk diagram on
the blackboard. The picture was a floor plan,
checkmarks that represented the path up to a
counter where there were x’s drawn. Underneath
it, above the chalkboard gutter was a single word:
BANK.
End of Story
“No more yelling!” he thundered into the dark
bedroom of his daughter. The bunk bed loomed
in a shroud. “I don’t want to hear from you again
unless a gorilla arm comes through that window
and shakes you like a ragdoll. Now goodnight.”
Waiting for the End of Story
Ten blocks away, two hairy arms were holding
a newspaper up like a shower curtain. Behind all
those words was a gorilla chewing on a cigar.
He dropped the paper and lifted his left arm to
look at all the wristwatches he was wearing.
They all read about 9:30. After he took a sip
of coffee from the styrofoam cup on his desk,
he reached out for the ringing telephone.
Through trick-photography, the ape appears
to talk into the phone. “Hey…Really?...Okay,
well call me if it happens again, okay?...
Yeah, I’ll be waiting here.” Then he dropped
the phone back in the cradle. He reached for
a pack of cigarettes on the table.
What Good?
What good is a house
without a rake?
What good is a dog
without a lake?
What good is a car
without a brake?
What good is a world
without mistakes
Inside Inside
So tired
tonight
I tried
to sleep
inside
a bed
inside
my dream
Poor Spot
Poor Spot
died of the drought
or I know not what
Something caused
a weight
made him sink
like a stone
Then
when it was over
light as an angel
he floated
to the top
A dry leaf
orange on water
the goldfish
who only lived
for a week
After Dawn As Told
After dawn a black sedan rolled down an alley
and slid into the narrow space, a slipway of
cardboard rotting, leaning fence posts and
garbage that crackled under the rolling,
stopping wheels. Dr. Biocal brought his class
here, this was Step 1 on the clipboard description.
He turned in his seat and pressed his finger on
Step 2.
The sliding door revealed the cool blue gray
of the new waiting day and one by one after
another they went out…all but Dr. Biocal who
sat still in his driving seat with a stopwatch
and that long look on his face.
They left for the bank as told.
Miracles
What a name
and what went
is not far away
Followers know
we’re not lost
A journey is
not a worry
All you do
is open eyes
show the way
And
miracles
are
dreams
come true
Like Sparrows Following Him
Wherever He Went
Like sparrows
following him
wherever he went
Getting caught
on branches
and corners
Hopping down
on sidewalks
like falling rain
The Titanic Shadow
Cantilevered and lowered
from a sea blue sky unrolled
onto a field rilled with autumn
brown furrows, it was the famous
Titanic shadow, it was back!
With slow grand passage
it leaked across the tilled
and fertile ground
trailing faint sound
its cork-screw engines
thrumming in the cold
The Float
An ordinary person becomes The Float
a superhero who has all the powers of
a cloud. What a sight to behold him
sprain along ten feet above the sidewalk
choosing a garden to rain upon
Blessing Creatures
The bird Laura found
skin like a cold child
flesh stuck to a plastic lid
Who knows who you are?
I wrap you in petals
for the ride you go on
then I find your ground
dig a hole in the lawn
I have to bring Rosa out
she rides up in my arms
she can say a true prayer
“Good luck on your next life
thanks for being here”
So It Goes
All’s well
oil well
the planet
has seen it
before
We see
what we want
to see
So it goes
the usual way
enslaved people
the tv
was meant
for you
Like a bright sun
or someone
calling the birds
if we knew better
the whole thing
would be solved
a long time ago
When I hear
we’re at war
what can I do?
I know we’ve
been here before
The Sticker
After I finish voting
at the retirement center
I have to drive quickly
get back home
catch the 7:30 bus
the day awaits at work
But an overstuffed truck
jack-knifes backing up
what can I say?
I have time to read
the bumper sticker
Bush/Cheney
and the panic
obvious motion
the flailing man
turning the wheel
desperately
Foggy Day
What a foggy day
what a gray dream
what an old story
looks like we all
fall under a spell
when the light is gone
The Vanisher
Early on Election Day morning I drove
over to the retirement center to vote.
There on the corner of Fairhaven Parkway
I saw something I couldn’t believe:
a superhero wearing bright leaf-green
with a long yellow scarf blowing in the wind.
Was he directing traffic or protecting ballots?
I never found out as things panned out.
Like humor and hope and other good things,
he vanished that day the second
I looked closer for him.
The Dummy Family
We created an entire family for only a few dollars
clothes, hats and shoes all bought at Goodwill
stuffed with newspapers, then placed in laying-down
tragedy on the pavement of Maine Street at night.
They looked real enough to stop traffic and bring on
the police with blue lights.
Poe at the Zoo
It must have started on a folded scrap
with a sharpened charcoal or a nib in hand.
He made observations leaning on the metal rail
at the Paris zoo ape house…Brute strength,
a razor and a chimneyed thought, trailing words
storied out beyond the city limits like clouds.
The President’s Mirrors
Another stolen election, the stunned reaction
of the radio and television population. An invitation
brought the fortune teller who approached the
president down the long marble hallway.
“What do you think about me?” the president
grinned sourly. “This is my second term.” He jabbed
a thumb at the television. On top of the machine, a
bust of Abraham Lincoln wore a white cowboy hat.
“That’s more’n him!”
The fortune teller stopped before the president’s
desk.
The president stood up, “What’s that you got
behind your back?!” He had reasons to be wary.
The fortune teller held out each hand holding
a round golden mirror.
When the president leaned over to look at his
reflections in them, all he saw was ink blackness, then
hundreds of ghostly skulls.
He asked the fortune teller, “Are those real
gold?”
Empire At Work
America is terror
every wicked arrow
conquistador
Rome before
Empire
at work
over there
killing the poor
stealing the gold
taking their land
I wonder
where
the war
will end
How Come?
I wasn’t on television for very long
I was on a program called How Come?
making a giant pair of inflatable sunglasses.
A few seconds worth of film for the day.
They may have been hoping for more
a shot of the boy levitating dramatically
riding the sunglasses out of the room
and into the air for a slow dissolving
pan of him disappearing into sky
Sam the Canary
The song seemed to have flown out of
Sam the canary. He stared out the cage
past the tapestry that mapped the wall.
A memory. A place far away and over
a sea of threads and patterns. It would
take all the wind in his wings to get him
there again.
Birdsongs
The radios played birdsongs, from the latest thrill
to the warbling old tunes your grandparents knew.
Even the shop on the corner would have one or two
wooden cages in eaves to speaker out music while
you buy coffee for the trip on the morning trolley.
Wintering cold with a warm cup in hand, that last
pretty song would stick in your head while you went.
The Wooden Trombone
A blat to shake the lillypad roofs
and rattle the trembling glass
It may be more of a board
than a blast made of brass
We Are Together
Seeing things
happening
knowing
The danger
is growing
and changing
what used to be
Fear is everywhere
a dog is barking
a cold night
unraveling
We are traveling
We have water
we have forest
we have weather
and each other
Whatever happens
we are together
City Under Fire
Streets so old
they crackle
underneath
Another invasion
starved for dreams
Stops
where
it starts
in the streets
The Lucky Halibut
It sat in a lavender glow
neon and flashing window lights
the bubbles around it were frantic
the glass of its tank hummed
with strange delight
The Lucky Halibut was painted
on the sign, but nobody knew
what made it lucky or even if
it could bring luckiness to you
so there is sat, unknown in the sand
flat, held down by gallons of water
with a secret or not
From There
I remember
the bicycle
the light of day
We saw
each other
Your eyes
caught me
The weather
took over
From there
Franklin Lilacs
One time I was returning from work,
down Indian Street up to the corner
past the credit union, finally around
the lilacs on Franklin Street
then a left turn and a right
next to the old church steeple
there’s our house by the willow tree.
Some people were out on lawns
looking at the sky. I noticed it too
a silver thing hovering like a kite.
Pheasant’s Violin
Real life glimpse into my dream of 11/16/04
just before 6 AM when Rustle woke us up:
“I want you to get everybody in that
room, Pheasant,” I told him.
“Okay boss.” He ran a hand over the
violin case.
Then we went in and shut the door on
the hallway. There was a terrible music of
gunfire before the door rattled open again.
I came out holding my arm, Pheasant
holding the smoking violin case. I seethed,
“When I said everybody, I didn’t mean me too!”
“Sorry boss…”
One Way Suit
Arnold Nusfelder jostled with the crowd.
He was determined to get a good view of the
stage. All around him flags and paper signs
were waving like mad and when the music
started blasting fanfare out of the speakers,
everything got crazy. Arnold had to fight to
keep his position at the stage. He shoved a
fat man’s cowboy hat, and some shoulders
and rode a little closer to the noise. The
president was announced to a fury.
There he was. Arnold kept a tight
hand on the machine in his pocket as he
watched that new suit he designed move
and salute. Arnold knew he wouldn’t be
able to wait for long. The president’s
speech had barely gone more than a
couple simple broken sentences when
Arnold Nusfelder pressed the button.
At first the president shrugged
like pushing off a ghost, but as he began
to rise off the wooden stage, his face
whitened into a blank mask. He dropped
the microphone three feet off the flooring
as his special agents rushed around him
pulling on him, then Arnold Nusfelder and
most of the crowd could hear him plainly
bellow to be left alone. The president’s
face shone with sweat and fever as he
yelled, “Let me be! This is it!” He beamed,
“It’s the rapture!” He held his arms up like
a crab, “God’s taking me!” he gloated.
And away he went…above the heads of
the gathered crowd. Faster and faster til
his voice shrilled away and the dot that
was him was gone too.
Arnold Nusfelder the tailor had set
no limit on the anti-gravity suit. It would
give the president a glorious view of this
beautiful earthly creation before flinging
him into the black deep of outer space.
Bassoon Room
The Old Sea Captain liked to listen
when his granddaughter played the bassoon
filling the room so the whole dark wooden
house would resonate and the green pines
would bend towards the kitchen windows
and the ocean in the cove swilled up its banks
to fill every shell with the sound
The Numbers
All he had to do was open the door to her
store wearing a number 15 on his striped
shirt. She eyed him mercurially, and asked
him about it. He admitted he got the little
numbers at a sewing shop, that’s all, and
they talked and had coffee and listened to
Sinatra on the radio. She kept him going
in coffee and poured cups for other friends
who stopped by.
When he opened the door the next day
she was wearing a red shirt with a 16
stitched to it.
“Hey!” he said.
She brought their coffees and sat down
with him.
The day after he came by and sat
in the same kitchen chair.
It was her turn to be surprised.
He had sewn a zero to the end of 15
to make it 150.
She seemed slow preparing their coffee.
He looked at shoes.
The next day was rainy. He was thinking
he better get a job soon, for rent and food
and the other things that came with a price.
He was looking forward to the bicycle ride
in the rain though. He even put on his striped
number 150 shirt again.
He rode in under the eaves and parked and
left the bike leaning against a cold mannequin.
The door chimed him in. The store was a lot
warmer than the fall out there and he could
smell coffee brewing.
Behind the counter, she called hello to him.
She had a string of a billion numbers running
across her chest like a necklace.
Wurlitzer Porch
I took a right
onto Thompson Street
to visit that
old house of hers
my grandmother
must be gone
for ten years
some dream
made me go
rediscover
her old house
repainted and different
and to my surprise
a giant Wurlitzer
filled the windows
on the porch
The Rock Thrower
Progression of a rock thrower
a series of stone markers
beginning with pebbles
glowed eggs close to shore
getting larger moving further
some flat and skipped
a few like boulders
tossed out with fury
probably as time goes on
rocks will get small again
until someone very old
sits beside the shore
rolls a pebble
off into the watery
The Cold Wall
It got cold
really cold
in that room
so before
it got worse
he had to
make repairs
tear down
the wall
put in
insulation
make it
better
but when
the plaster
fell off
he found
the posters
shoved in
by someone
before him
trying
in vain
to make it
warmer
no wonder
it stayed cold
Dracula
Bela Lugosi
Frankenstein
Boris Karloff
those movies
were stuck
behind the wall
Bicycle Sail
A new idea went clattering
on the street downhill hitting
top speed among the slow
He steered the bicycle
by pulling on the sail shrouds
then the wind took him along
Migrating Birds
Over the rained on field
littered with pumpkins
broken shards like pottery
ostriches are flying south
The Talking Dog Store
She looked at them all at the talking dog store.
Finally she settled on a poodle who spoke French.
She also bought a bowl, a blanket, and records
so she could learn the language
Phinneas
Slow padded feet
take him down a path
green grass and pine overhead
leafy maples dapple light
across the fur on his back
Fur like dandelion fluff
Phinneas follows his old lady
through the rock fence cleft
crackling fallen leaf slow decent
to the place where land breaks
Rocks lead sharply to the sea
a sandy little cove
where they sit together
to rest bones and be alive
The tide is eternal
anytime of day
the water is here
or on the way
11/29
Early this morning just before I walked through the
greenbelt forest to get to the bus stop, I told myself,
"Whatever you do, don't think about Transylvania."
It was dark and cold and wet, and of course I did.
I made it through the woods without interlude, but
as I came out of the woods and was walking up the
street, there was a fearful racket of someone
bursting through the reeds next to the condos.
For some reason, I wasn't even surprised or
frightened, as a person dressed all in puffy white,
like the Michelan Man (but a short woman version)
appeared on the road next to me. It was too funny.
She was out of breath. I said, "Good morning,"
and passed on my way.
The Teether
Clouds of coal boiled out of the ship over ragged
whitecaps. Who knows what happened to the crew
and all but three of those passengers left on board.
The vast silhouette of steamer, surrounded by a bird ring.
Gulls rode into the blood red sun setting on the harbor.
A door sprung from the bolted hull and the family ghosted
out. Bright moonlight gleamed on the baby’s ivory face.
The machines of the city crackled and groaned and
rumbled all around in the air, high on elevated tracks,
noise across streets as carriages and carts.
Moving to a new city, the electric feeling of trying
to fall asleep there the first night kept them all staring
at the continuous play of lights and shadows on the walls.
Their baby was wide-awake. He had been teething all the way
on the journey from the docks to their rented room.
The only thing that kept him quiet was chewing on
a dried chip of meat. He gummed its blackened edges
to a soft pulp. His first taste of America. Eventually
at dawn he would fall asleep. And they would hide him
from the sun under a worn blanket made of old country cloth.
Anyone’s Poems
This evening the famous poet
reads in town ten minutes away
while I’m here in the gloom
lit only by a nightlight room
telling a story to fall asleep
feeling the wrong thing
wishing to storm from here
leave my daughter awake
to go be there
Even though I don’t
it will take a couple days
before I finally realize
the night I stayed home
is worth more than
anyone’s poems
The World Awaits
War is over
government overthrown
What democracy?
it’s crazy
Who can believe
what they say
It’s like a movie
made in 1948
Black and white
just like then
the world
awaits
A Goodbye Arm
Bells were ringing. They all scrambled out into
the alley as fast as they could. Their teacher was
waiting for them, the car was running, the windows
were open and they threw in bags and bags full of
money. When the car was filled and low to the ground,
Dr. Biocal was already behind the wheel waving to them
a goodbye arm lifting like a pterodactyl taking flight.
My Illusion
In my loss
to you
This
is clear
It’s my
illusion
I have
lost
time
And
not
you
The Infinite Telescope
In her imaginary land
there’s an infinite telescope
She can see the whole universe
beautiful worlds to behold
It might seem like dreams
but what she sees is real
Back here where we live
she can show us how
Take a toilet paper roll
colored in stripes of crayon
Look through and see
wonders on the other side
Wake Up Saint
Wolves
in sheep clothes
creep by night
Where
is the shepherd?
Fast asleep
Wake up saint
out of dreams
move into light
The Goodwill Industries
He had developed a way to steal things from old
photographs. Any sight of candelabras, paintings,
jewelry, even cars, he would pull them out.
Sinister in his long black cloak and hat tipped
over his face, he slunk through fleamarkets
and garage sales and the Goodwill Industries.
Whenever he found a box of tattered photos or
shedding albums, he would grab them up and
search them for valuable memories.
Fred Again
For a brief strange amount of time, I opened the doors
to the Salvation Army and Goodwill to find my music.
This is always a fallback into years of wear, from the
clothes that hang and give the air its ghost, to the very
back wall where the records are tipped stacks in a bin.
I became familiar with the usual cast: Percy Faith,
everything with strings, cowboys, swingers, preachers,
patriots, dance crazes, and every once in while the
true oddity. Something that had the power to stand up
out of its pit of time and grab like a shaggy, ice-age
creature. Something named ‘Whistlin Joe’, on a pink
Decca Records label, by someone named Fred Lowery.
For 25 cents, the 45 single was given a whole new life,
played over and over for days until its eerie warbling
and spooky chorus became too much for one listener.
He ran across the room, ripped it from the turntable
and smashed it against the gray speckled wall.
That fit, that terrible wax demise seemed to have ended
a life. Even my joy of searching the musty world where
‘Whistlin Joe’ once lay entombed passed. As a last wish,
to serve eulogy to the person who had created such a stir
in my life, I felt duty bound to know what I could about
Fred Lowery. This was years before the computer
captured the logging of all human details, and the only
information on him I uncovered came from the few
lines in a thick reference book: “Blind whistling virtuoso
active in the late 30’s and 40’s. Attended Texas School
for the Blind in Austin…worked clubs and theatres;
some recording. Faded by the late 40’s; a few records
early 50’s.”
I kept the intact pink round record label, the very center,
the heart, all the remained of Fred Lowery’s 45 and have
carried it forever as a sort of holy relic.
How strange again that I would rediscover Fred Lowery
some five years later at the other edge of the continent,
in a retro-store dedicated to the hip and cool culture of
America’s past.
Filed in with the pristine Capitol recordings of Sinatra
was an entire album by Fred Lowery entitled, ‘Walking
Along Kicking The Leaves…’ Surprise! He has risen again,
wrapped in a Technicolor sleeve, whistling with orchestra,
a bona-fide cult member of those who only seem to fade.
I Know
Thank you
this night
to the rain
I can hear
weather
underneath
car wheels
outside
I know
on the lawn
soggy as
Old Ireland
a stretch of wire
goes to find
the hawthorn tree
Christmas lights
tell every
passing soul
how we feel
The Visions
He wanted his wife to know that when she slept
a cloud formed above her. Cinema images began
appearing on it and he watched her dreams, until his
weary movied eyes closed down. Then he was in
a field that used to be. It became a drive-in movie
theater with a big screen facing the sea. The night
was lit by stars as things from outer space were
shown. Monsters, car races, lovers fighting the
establishment. When the drive-in was sold and
turned into a parking lot, the visions were left
hovering above where projectors used to air.
Cars were parked for work, but nobody could see…
no, not completely…there was a room across all
the roofs and rainy atmosphere where two people
were sleeping. They saw what was happening,
they were part of it, and in the morning, they
remembered.
Only One
Steady
a thought
straight
from
the start
Hear
the heart
There is
only one
A Little Spark
Three days of rain
the creek arose
beyond its banks
washing cold sand
up among the reeds
over the grave
where our goldfish lays
If there’s a little spark
left of life in him
he must have joined
that sweep of water
shining downstream
cover: rosa frost
written by allen frost during
the fall season september 22-december 21, 2004
