Issue 154, Spring 2000
Concrete forest, puddled houses; clouds
sweep across the sky—a thunderhead
settles in. Think how anger seethes
before it's seen, a gray that's wanting red.
We'll melt to mortar between these bricks, you said.
Chimneys surrender smoke as we walk
nearer your ribbed darkness—threshold of a hall
I've barely seen, a heart that's caught between
its blossoming and fall, a voice that's never seen at all—
still I know it's there, I've heard it call.