Two of them, sixty feet high, with trunks as big around
as fifty-gallon barrels, lean at a corner of the house,
sprinkling their tiny green burr-like flowers
over the deck and, during windy thundershowers,
dropping their sprigs of leaves, delicate as ferns.
Just weeks ago they hummed with thousands of bees,
a sound like a huge refrigerator left in the sun.
Quelle Night – Sarah V. Schweig
She is, tonight, in spite of.
That’s what she said, going out,
locking the door, closing her winter coat
against the cold. She is
in spite of it all.
In the Congaree – Samuel Amadon
I’m home. I’m not home. I’m on the road or
Off it, briefly. I’ve been out of place. I’ve been
Taking familiar walks. I like the boardwalk. I like
The swamp. I feel ill at ease. I feel fine.
We lived in so many houses, Gloria: Indiana Avenue,
Summit and Fourth, the double on Hudson Street.
And that upstairs apartment on North High we rented
from Armbruster’s. Mother thought it Elizabethan,