17 June 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 2
Bohemian Hat Trick
Today the wind rushes right through the skeletons,
rushes headlong toward the next stop
on its lonely hearts town tour.
At the local Wal-Mart one big tidal wave of empty
washes over a man ringing and ringing a bell.
A row of plastic Santas scatters across asphalt.
I rinse my hands in stasis. Summer's hot blue sky
has faded to pale, like a painting of madness left out to cool.
If I wanted to I could lean out the window
and knock against the air,
hear the hard sound hollow makes.