"Thy Cradle is Green

Benedict, your embraces
once were stays. We loved

the June field then, our planar picnic,
Dexadrine clouds whip-skittering
above. But now, after your leaving,

there are rip cords. Penumbras. And ice
that can only report
it harbors air. Two possibilities remain--

A) Zero is gibbous.

Or

B) From the tipping dinghy,
our skeletons lisp, It was a nice life.

The answer: A).
Although true love
took the first bus
out of town, there is still singing

through the waters, chiming
in the sheaves. Those trumpets of Jerusalem.

And I a galleon, untethered, each tide
a mecca that knows
and presses this hull."

--Corinne Lee


They Fought Like Demons.


Is it the whole meaning of life, that intensive research has now perfected the ageold art of deception?


"If you are really strange you are always in enemy territory, and your constant concern is survival." --Richard Hugo