Green light beam shines upon the web of streets,
The messenger from strange and distant worlds.
You're far away, for me it all repeats -
My town is empty, shadows roam the walls.

No Savior comes, I run into the void.
And when the masts of pines come into view,
I stop and fall on salty sand, destroyed.
It does not matter if I cry for you -

It's not the wind that rustles sleepy trees,
It's not the chirps of sparrows or jays,
It's Moira, saddened by the Fate she sees,
Unknits the lace of my remaining days...

" There are only four questions of value in life, Don Octavio.
What is sacred?
Of what is the spirit made?
What is worth living for,
and what is worth dying for?

The answer to each is the same:
only love."

From don Juan de Marco



Where are you now when songs
get blown and dance in the turf
of memory?  I find the ends of
everyday strings tie the knots
knitted from songs I've heard
and poems I've written.

Four questions are unanswered
Don Octavio.  I travel over years
undone or never to be.  My mind
unknits the warm nights, the chirp
of insects, the swarm so thick
we could not make love in the
dark, by the lake.

No answers swim into my mind.
No questions fall to the ground.
My gown remains laced.  You
touched me under the ties but
you left me in the rain, unanswered,
unable to return to the capsule
out of which time begat those
four questions.  

Look for the answers under the
salt of my tears and find only
smears.  My tears are no reply.




Caroline Shank

I wear my friends like a diadem
yours like a solar system
though somehow, they break the universal law
something glitched in the G
denatures it to P

In a tower defense game, you’d be
the princess, and i the net
of arrows, axes, lasers hotter than life
itself. Did you know my
lover designs lasers?

The sizzles in my neck are all the
more obvious for it. I
got my paper back today. At the top was
a name with my ego
cut to ribbons, beside.

I see someone and know they’re your friend
(Don’t have Sister’s condition
but my heart unknits itself anyway.) We
decay together each
time we improve ourselves.

They speak a name and it’s now a sheath
through which I see the point of
a nose, teeth change color, stacks of blood from your
sharp tear ducts. It’s fishnets
which look like chainmail. It’s

a lot of work perming my hair for
weeks at a time—sowing discourse
like a full-time job. Chaining myself to an
anonymous statue
is a lot of work. When

I wrapped my head like the foam around
a pear, my upper lip short-
ened to reveal my front teeth (the chip polished
porcelain,) it was a
lot of work. Breath in, breathe

out. She’s always a woman to me.
Tuberculosis, asthma,
paxlovid. You cannot sleep, there may be
princesses around. I
ought to smash this circlet.