She dips into that flower, so much so, it’s self-watering.
the taste of smooth pink mysteries
Peter Jastermsky
Author: jshb32
Heard, Not Heard
It’s never mentioned. The sounds it picks up, invisible, in plain sight.
lost in translation
van gogh’s
other ear
Peter Jastermsky
Identities
This time, he used vinegar, certain that its acidity would clear his vision.
“not my mirror!”
wearing thin
regrettable creatures
Peter Jastermsky
The wind carries away the fog
I have realized my mortality! I have told my story! Have I found peace? Sporadically, in acceptance that I am divided in my belief in whether the earth is on its way to a new ice age, or on the contrary.
Finding peace is the same as allowing it . Am I not allowed to drop the fight, surrender to my flower life, and drink nectar?
my head is
openly filled with cells
a beehive
Mona Larsen
Dusk
Dusk. As if someone had placed a paper bag
over the sinking sun’s head. Deserted streets.
On the corner, a small diner with one man
inside, sitting in a both, a glass of ice water
near his right hand.
Snow begins to fall. The man in the diner
stares out the window, his face, a bulb
without a lampshade.
Down the street, a barrel full of fire.
Three figures huddled around it.
No one speaks.
The man in the diner puts a dollar bill
on the table and leaves. The empty diner
shines like someone about to go to sleep.
The houses are all dark. One of them
is mine.
close to no
flat and fatherless
there is
Keith Polette
On the Road
The blackberries are blighted, but we managed
to make jam from them anyway. Even though
our teeth have been vandalized by age,
and our socks have lost their twins,
we walk into a world stubborn as a mirror,
where the low sky scrapes our backs.
We hold the road like a clarinet, our blackened
tongues searching for the reed, the only music
the treefall behind us. Our faces etched
and angled like keys, we are searching for
some mystery to unlock, knowing that
when we do, one of us will vanish, one
of us will stay.
wolves in the walnut tree
doubt
wild vista inside
Keith Polette
The Wagon
The desert skies were clear,
except for the apostrophe of cloud
that hung over the mountains. In the village,
a boy took possession of the day
and hauled it in a red wagon,
until he was called home for dinner.
The sun waited all evening
and well into night.
except for the apostrophe of cloud
that hung over the mountains. In the village,
a boy took possession of the day
and hauled it in a red wagon,
until he was called home for dinner.
The sun waited all evening
and well into night.
red-eyed dog
nose
the world
Keith Polette
