by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
by Ray Corvi The funeral parlor opened its front doorOut flew a dandelion’s wind-borne seeds Mourn the way the trees have thrownLimbs branching skyward into leaves
by Ray Corvi It begins with a lapsus I climb out of the windowinto the boughs of trees become a bird& fly away and find myselfgrafted to the day * the window: open it–– I shall leap and soar I can whistle any tune the songs they o-pen as windows or…