Cracks in the pavement,
potholes pebbled with cold mix:
ice-hardened tires thump and jar.
Grip the wheel tightly;
hubcaps litter the street.
This is the season of lost pieces.
Thread carefully through the debris,
the frozen plastic
and the scraps of metal.
Streets fall apart,
paint flakes from the fenders,
axles bounce and bend,
and all we can do
is watch the rear view mirror
straining for a glimpse of summer
or wait for signs of hope”Men Working”
when suddenly the streets
flower with orange barrels in the spring.
Lift My Chin, Lord
Lift my chin, Lord,Say to me,“You are not whoYou feared to be,Not Hecate, quite,With howling sound,Torch held…
Letters
Two delightful essays in the March issue, by Nikolas Prassas (“Large Language Poetry,” March 2025) and Gary…
Spring Twilight After Penance
Let’s say you’ve just comeFrom confession. Late sunPours through the budding treesThat mark the brown creek washing Itself…