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.