Home

Autumn/Winter Issue

O

I heard your echo

in the passenger seat

afraid of the dark let out

a tiny sonorous o

and let voice’s dust

settle

the pitch, beating
the chance of melody
to the punch,

dove like a swallow,

a childless mother a hole
in the nest

or

the first sensation of flight,

the soft cut of air

under wings loose

caressing the undersides

and finally freedom.

Summer 2004 Issue

Winter 2004 Issue

Summer 2003 Issue

Editor's Note

Guidelines

SNR's Writers

Mail

Soft

is the way
we walk up the flight
to where I live now,

and we talk a little
and share our napes
and other assorted

lessly revealed things
like repetition
and embarrassment,

and I study
your relationship
to words

and how they overlap
with mine in soft
sentences I’m beginning

and you’re ending,
and I don’t say
I’m frightened

when I walk
down the stairs
and leave you

in a room in a house
with the door left open,
the owner not at home.

The Starry Night as Love Poem
after Van Gogh

Ink,
the color of night.
Ink,

the liquid measure
of distance
and spires.

Leave me here
for tens,
miles of nights.

Inject dye
into the wind
and watch it

take flight,
give shape,
slip the needle

through the eye,
the lost
vortex of light.

Here, I’ll wait
for you,
a fixed gypsy

in love
with blue
and its variations,

stitched in time,
without you
to color me in,

trace the details
of my longing
like the sag

and heave of cities
by mountains
and hills

along the way.