Poems I wrote in the early hours
are placed in water tight bottles
and entrusted to the tide.
I stand in wet sand at night
searching for a glass encased reply
but for now the wind, the moon and its pull on the waves
know far more about poetry than I do.
More from Issue #1
On What Felt Like the End of Winter by John Abbott
Dead limbs dirty snow a quarter moon left out too long breath sharp with sawdust, fills every step can’t remember every angle branch or leaf if only this rush of light offered…
The Midway by John Abbott
There’d been a rumor All summer that they Would close down the midway By the lake Everyone in town knew It was seedy, no place To bring your kids For a night…
Dear Confidence by Matthew J. Hall
Confidence, you are the ultimate trickster. Your bright light is a dangerous fire. How do you decide where to set up home? Why do you laugh and celebrate foolishness with the saddest…
Art’s Bar by John Abbott
One of the only Workingmans’ bars in town Situated near the GM Plant; They catered to the men Who worked the line Kept the food simple The jukebox stacked With blue collar…