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Perhaps it’s not the perfume
but the sting
of running barefoot
from the cottage
if someone shrieks in the night,

boughs that were meant to hurt
yet caught drops of rain
and held them glistening
and delicate in the moonlight
appearing between parted clouds,

and the gift of frankincense
mixed with late summer dampness,

the stillness
where breath hangs on every word
though there is nothing to say
and no one to say it to.

* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.

There’s a divinity in glass
That cannot be ignored,

That finds common expression
In windows and doors.

Also mirrors, windscreens, candlesticks, vases,
Jugs and decanters, lanterns and streetlights,
Bulbs of various shapes and sizes.

Lakes and ponds also assume
This quality on calm days,

And buckets of water.

It’s known of course that certain elements when combined
Will fracture this quintessence of sand,
But it’s also believed that breath cast on broken glass
Can never be erased,

for Kenneth and Christine Hillier

time
all we got is time
snow melts somewhere to my right
on a big hill with captives and captors
they said go slow and mind impatience
i didn’t listen
sure do now
but this is another mountain
or is it a gentle tremor
or a bird singing and im not paying attention
who are you really
what world feels safe
this wave never reaches shore
a song being played over and over in an empty hall
i can see the universe in a pond under rocky bluffs
where spirits move grass between their fingertips
but i can’t see you