SOFT STAR-SPANGLED STORY

Gleams out at me – a few degrees
of difference – this subtly altered
angle of the sun: what glows a month
beyond the solstice starts to tell its soft
star-spangled story: just a hint, just now:
as if just off the bow of an emerging

dawn-white dory – small fishing boat:
a speck on the horizon: ushering in
little rushes, breaths of life in light:
touched by some faint glory: beyond
the bite of cold seductive death
embraced by Winter night – and now,

just now, a slight bright evanescent
welcome: fresh, awake: not seasonally
torn, or worn – and still, of course,
not even close to warm: but here’s,
unsinkably, the thing. It’s not
unthinkable there’ll be a Spring.

Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)

THE BRUTES

Are rough.
Have a weak shape.
Black.
Like an entrance
to their anus.
Greet each other.
Go up in the dark.
Lose themselves
in silky and black
currents.
No easy deaths.
Best friends were
missing and loneliness.

Chaplin warned us.

T. Obatala (trkyounger)

POTTER’S FIELD

Wall Street
The trading floor
Littered paper caskets
An epitaph to the masses
Graveyard

Angela Lewis (aml2559)