2 December 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 4

The Future We Can Name

by ALLAN PETERSON

Nothing is motionless, not the painted portrait

blinking while you're away

whose acids are discoloring buttons, whose frame

is oxidizing while moistening its eyes,

or the uneasy sky pieced together from brushstrokes.

We stand on the deck with breadcrumbs,

seagulls appear in the air before us. This story

will spread like salamanders