Poetry
Richards, Marilee & Partridge, Dixie & Quinn, John Robert
John Robert Quinn A Winter Day I look out the window: All I can see Is one drab sparrow, The bones of a tree. The cold is nearly Visible; It stings like a hornet. White as a skull The snow is...
...Oh There ought to be shelter Wherever men go...
...Spring...
...No one ever admits to being miserable and as the night wears on, the ones who can still focus murmur little falsehoods to each other about how terrific it is to be wearing the moon upside down...
...the light in the grove penetrates the skin through new veins, lime green and translucent...
...Autumn...
...thinning shade glimmers of pale gold, the laving of slopes leaf by leaf...
...that tremble...
...John Robert Quinn A Winter Day I look out the window: All I can see Is one drab sparrow, The bones of a tree...
...Marilee Richards Wearing the Moon When cows get drunk they stumble around clumsy as toads...
...They careen headfirst into prickly pears or topple over sideways as if they could lean against clouds...
...25 January 1991:53...
...Each season tells you stay and leaves you less sure where to go but here...
...Dixie Partridge Aspen Grove Between the deep arc of sky and the far valley of smog coming late to Wind River, light breathes in these trees: small leaves like sensors pulse with code--- the world's extract rendered to a wisdom we have not learned to enter, but are drawn here to obey...
...White as a skull The snow is drifting, Homeless...
...In the morning the sun prying open their eyes is worse than the Octopus and the Tilt-A-Whirl combined, and there is nothing to keep the frogs from rising up inside except to lock every bone in place, listen to the grass whistle...
...a few, forgetting they are creatures of the earth and that the air will not gather beneath their thin wings make ungainly leaps toward what they believe to be lovely in the night sky, persisting until they find themselves straddling the rusty carcasses that sit in the bottoms of ravines or snagged in the lower branches of juniper trees...
...And even in winter, branches carbon against white trunks, the quiet foreknowledge of heartwood hears the utterance of leaves...
...If you camp among the quaking, you will speak little...
Vol. 118 • January 1991 • No. 2
