Simon Perchik


Not from some savannah the sky
took root half in ice, half in sorrow
half where its warm fruit

still falls against your cheeks
the way rain would spread out
before you learned to weep

though the grass still covers you
ripens as the mornings one arm
still hears before the other

–you take with nothing to give
and sunlight too has hardened
has forgotten how yet just the same

you gather its mist and one by one
from between these stones
a little distance is lifted

empties, clasped in the open
weightless, lost among your fingers
reaching for pieces and each other.

Robin Dunn

Following the mapmaker

I don't know,
The deeds make their own logic,
We've trucked our own wizardry in, with our boots.
He's moving,
Come, I'm only five years behind him:

Looking again

No one where else
As we mark the minutes,
Into sleep:
It was where we knew we'd find it,
I can't remember now.


If I were you,
No but if I were you,
And where:
No where else.
When I were you,
The you on you,
Where you,
On me,
Rolled under the storm,
On my boots.

Michael Estabrook

Beautiful Woman

My Poetry Teacher
has determined
I have written more
than enough poems
about my wife
about her inestimable beauty
poise, grace and femininity.
“There are so many other
incredible things in the world
to write about,” he insists.