Issue 125, Winter 1992
There Is No Shelter
Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
like a dew.
In the morning, litde galaxies, they flash out
their charred, invisible residue etching
The edges our lives take and the course of things, filling
The shadows in,
an aftertrace, through the discards of the broken world.
Like the long, slow burn of a struck match.