Curled up in the
familiar ring
she went to sleep.

What a world, little churl!

Raw grass blades and
these spear-headed weeds,

Sun glancing.

did not
come home

to whom?

As if porous. . .

Passing through


Hungry for a garden's
whispered care.

Those blues and pinks.

Who has
saved some for you

may part
the afternoon from an evening
looked to, and
looking back
or down on our
walled-off suspense.

"There's more," we are
to understand.

Excreting one more
link, and putting
a leaf back
on either side, a fin, a stroke, this
slow progress.

The awful thing
if every spurt
left him--

Anonymous Phrase--

in hereand there it
under the hidden eyes of
Brer Fox and Brer Bear.

"Nana, na, nana."

Ready tongue.

Coming back at
her sister, then
to address the world's
intelligent and
uninhabited designs.

Most at home when
words come through
the metal
wires, the unseen

". . . reminds me of my home
far away."

Rae Armantrout

read the author's Bio and Working Notes

go to "Fiction"

go to this issue's table of contents