Oscar McHale The hill is privy to her last, relentless pour, Bathing blades of grass as she rests her golden hair, Entangling, obscuring it among them. Dichotomous to growing shadows merely fleeting,
Sandy Carlson “It seems, as one becomes older That the past has another pattern And ceases to be a mere sequence,”* So it seems tumbling through time To Grendel’s lair, where the deep fear Of patternm
John Muro Shoreline is shrinking and the shuttered cottages are ghosted by mists drifting upward from channels of mud-softened marsh like tawdry shrouds that appear more pallid smudge than luminous pe