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Brennen Wysong

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

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

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.

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