By Keith Burton i was stretching my legs on the littoralgiving names to the shapes of the cloudsthat swam across the lake’s reflectionwhen trouble came crawling on eight legs. help me across he asked with a period. i knew better; i had an owl’s acuity.no can do, i know you…
by Liane St. Laurent and so the days become less golden. yielding to the weightof their august fruit, blackberry canes lean acutely angled. theyellow cat’s thirsty bones cry from under the forsythia and thewaning moon nods in agreement: soon. but right now there areno vacancies in this carnival of symmetries…