by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by John Grey Is it just me or are the summers growing shorter, the winters longer? Have I become nothing more than an inveterate weatherman, disbelieving what the television, newspaper says, believing only . in the forecasts of my flesh, my bones? And I’m being loved shorter, unappreciated longer. And…
by Ag Synclair let those broken things the old and discarded enjoy quiet sleep let them lie, still under an orange night split by trees where the hounds of winter bark mournful, low in this place where they left us among the slightest of bones