Summer/Fall 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 1997 |

Late Fall, Rain

The rain is picking its switches, beating the chrysanthemums for their own good. The eye can see only in muted lines, disappearances. Where is the baby we threw out with the bathwater? The sidewalks are busy giving directions. What have we to lose? An old raccoon climbs from the storm sewer, bumbles a trail of piss across the porch, the welcome mat: a usual visitor. Enter, someone's daughter foggy in yellow warm-ups jogging. She is the last word autumn utters.

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November

By Herbert Scott

The rain is picking its switches, beating the chrysanthemums for their own good. The eye can see only in muted lines, disappearances. Where is the baby we threw out with […]

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