by Jason Grant The entire king-sized bed is mine now, but I can’t seem to move from the left side to the right because on the nights you were here—laying there—if I dared move from my side to yours in the middle of the night it was like I-was-crossing-some-boundary you-needed…
by Don Mager While cold’s persistence officiates, afternoon’s amnesia sweeps away the dinge of clouds. Sundown plays suites of madrigals on pianissimo recorders. Counterpoints weave off-beats at low registers. Modulations melt. Descant sherbets—treble creams—drops of lemon tenors—contra basses in their azure barkings—and dancing at the upper edges, small piquant sopranino…
by Don Mager Chunks crash from branches and sweat into the ground. Icicles drip until their hollowed fragility cracks and clatters to the sidewalk. From its cloudless tall Aegean sky, midmorning sun scans the wide expanse of thaw and wet. Only north side shadows of thick trunks lurk with small…
by Don Mager Fourteen days away on business else- where, sunset is back at work pouring spot-lit white across all the backside windows of each hill slope house. Inside, floors and walls are puddled. The puddles shift and shrink. Outside, the saturated trees blaze in Boric Acid shimmers and green flames. Sun’s…
by Don Mager With its departing mists, amber dusk wanders across the dinner hour’s shower, the way aromas drift their savory steam in a warm kitchen: turmeric stew and saffron rice and backing gourd-shaped halves of butternuts. The kinesthetic air pulses with color’s body. It throbs in moisture’s glow. Buried…
by Don Mager Sun’s exuberant rush up the sky sweeps off shadows. The polish of fresh light sizzles icy mica flakes on lawns. Exhaling from the Juniper hedge, a tang of morning sweetness wafts across the shivery air. Like a bundled up gnome, a child bobbles up the curb to the hilltop…
by Don Mager The fog presses through the cold swamp of morning and eventually takes on, like an unfamiliar rival, the early afternoon’s occluded light. With its beams aimed low, each car crawls past the other cars like old men on their knees with flashlights quivering as they look for…
by Don Mager Don’t stop looking just to take sides with the wriggling cricket. You see victim then. Look simply. This thread is a line taking a slow walk around itself to view every side. It sees angles and arcs. It sees interstices. Its eloquence wavers in the light. Its journey forth and…