Jan/Feb 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2017 |

Seasonal without Spring: Winter

Despair, & the page open to the forest of Dante's suicides     while a blue bird cocks its head on the sill, framed by an obliterate sky. All last night the Glock's Oh lord     at attention, poised as a starved wolf in snow. The brown tap filling my glass this morning, & my dehydrated heart's     sprint—more & more aware of my blood, that song bird's natural & frail precision like Billie's beautiful haunt. The ghost enters the city (Gregorio),    a nicotine streak in his beard & his body: one violin warped in the black, tire-eaten snow. In hell, he says, a woodpecker like a harpie     eats at my heart. Yesterday, I spoke to the branches leant by the first snow.     I was angry & jealous of their belief in spring. The world requires unrequited patience— the statue of a woman holding a tome, sparrow    shit on her frozen shoulders. When I snapped a few branches, the gre

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Portrait & Shadow

By Andrés Cerpa

Despair, & the page open to the forest of Dante's suicides     while a blue bird cocks its head on the sill, framed by an obliterate sky. All last night the […]

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