Summer 1989 • Vol. XI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1989 |

Before Ground Roses

Idling at the new suburb's intersection, he sees the red and white necklace of broken glass, startling as the uncontrollable skidding track of a life that abruptly ends where the company of common oak, elm, pines various in height and age and demeanor bends like a crowd speechless beside the ditch-mouth: he hums a tune which has rocketed upon him out of nowhere, a night years lost like a girl's cut finger he has not thought to remember the idiotic words useless, unsummonable, but the melody repetitive in his head as a flashed thigh, an old scent. Twilight nudges the skull-caps of leaf-shadow forward to the tarmac's uphill slope, enough of them he reminds himself the bursting-forth voluptuousness of the pink ground roses means nothing, though his neighbor, a chemist, chewing barbecued pork, has admitted the accidental nature of everything at junctures makes us dream. Under sudden bats the wives gibber and coo, their faces blacken. In thirst, they wait. Already one of these roads ends

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Descending

By Dave Smith

Idling at the new suburb's intersection, he sees the red and white necklace of broken glass, startling as the uncontrollable skidding track of a life that abruptly ends where the […]

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