Issue #54


Reprise, of a sort

Reprise, of a sort

Timothy Pilgrim


Savage wind slaps screen, sash,

glass again. Her memory blows in,


black slash of night,

like slicing open a fish belly, 


finding darkened clumps, 

once a spleen or bad liver


in some rainbow's life.

I must find a way to surface, fight,


dream myself back, say,

to dusk, a reprise — last light, brief, 


flashing low, moon, full, orange 

turned gold, not glowering


before she goes.  With luck,

I will be hooked downstream, 


the end coming from above

though I lie still in tall grass.

Grow Up

From 80 to 120