Contributed By: Daniel Wolff
This Tuesday in April,
the first egret of last Fall
flies back across
the rain-soft sky.
It’s as white and brief as a dream.
When it lands
on the rock dam,
black water rushes past
its yellow-green feet.
Exactly as (I’d almost swear) before.
But where was this water then?
And where was I?
And what does a dream
fly back across?
Return to table of contents for Issue 4 Summer 2011
Thousands of days turning the engine, striking a match, backing the old Mercury out of the driveway. Thousands of errands to the grocery store, the post office, with the window cracked open, heater rattling, winter’s chill rushing in. My mother cradles a cigarette between her fingers, taps ash into the street with her […]
This poem was nominated for The Best of the Net. Hello doctor, I’m having bad thoughts. I want to call you on the phone and tell you about bleach and corn and suffering. I want you to tell me what to do, but don’t make me do it. Here is the problem: What if we […]
Return to table of contents for PRACTICES, POWER & THE PUBLIC SPHERE Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010
