2 June 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 2
The moon fades in and out but has no weakness.
For years I watched two free falls of light trickle down the courthouse wall.
As if the bulbs are drains,
leaving water-darkened stains where the light flows and goes dry.
There's so much ruined laundry.
Fire escapes fall off the sides of hotels, and no one will sweep them away.
It's spring in the back yard and winter out the front window.
The weatherman tips his hand back and forth, noncommittal.
About the author:
Karen Joan Kohoutek has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University Moorhead. She lives in Fargo, North Dakota, where she performs her work and publishes chapbooks through the Velvet Flamingo Press. She can be reached at .