5:30 P.M.—Friday

p
o
e
m
s

Cold wind and cars

stall in lines

on N. Lamar.

The parking lot to the

“natural foods” grocery store

and the “locally owned” bookstore

crowds with machines that complete

the escape from ignored

old earth-bound time

questioned by carbon dioxide

leaked in a moment to obtain

a six-pack of English beer.

You Might Also Enjoy

Fulcrum

Jana Prikryl

1. Across the river her voice sends shreds
torn from something gelid, all acute
angles though the surface of each. . .

poems

Diaspora Sonnet 49

Oliver de la Paz

He should have stayed home and didn’t move beyond
seeing himself in the windows of the storefronts, Vegas, Rodeo Drive,. . .

poems

Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.