by George Freek I stare at my unmade bed.Outside, a chilling breezerustles the dead leaves,as if they were feathers.The moon is a ball of lead.I gaze at distant stars,lost in the infinite sky,as if they hadnowhere to abide.A torn shirt, hanging froma tree, waves in the breeze,like an abandoned flag,now…
by Thomas Griffin The night before the August blue moon howling with coyotes on Putney Mtn warning barks of dogs alarmed someone entered their tethered territory, wailing past the yipping coyotes in the Brookline valley below eight off-key crooners concatenations of lament, ballyhoo, query. Who are you lone brother why…