Milk or Whelk
21 February 2010
Vol. 9, No. 4
poetry, prose poem
Who are you? Tinkerer or whistler? Whisperer or pickpocketer? Specter or wren? If a riddle, then answer in static trapped in antennas or flash powder dissuading children away from the dark. If not, when weather registers music in our bones, then answer with glass antlers shattering or stars carved of paraffin. Once, I dreamed of paper targets of a prey rare or fleet enough to make me turn away the gun.
Low Owls
18 February 2010
Vol. 9, No. 4
poetry
Some are sparrows,
but generally wintry.
Some sparrows spell
rows or spar
when in discord.
Just listen beneath
the din then:
A contradiction
sings winged things
through cold seasons.
Woods Shock
15 February 2010
Vol. 9, No. 4
poetry
The wind in the beginning
meant the crying
inside the blackened lanterns
could carry a rare measure of music.
But midway
into the forest, we already heard
the stolen horses
whinnying within the ending.
