who I'm reading

Ruin

In the spider and on the web. On the branch

and in the pothole. Yellowed grass, wilted

fern, blackened growth. On the skeletal

stems of black-eyed Susans and in dawn's

stretch.  The glint of street lights. The sibilant

mulberry behind blinds.  Empty sky. Listen

to these old windows,

how they lend themselves to rattle.

Suzanne Frischkorn

from Lit Windowpane

The God Chain

Priest River, Idaho

Anchor sheen trout tulip under yellow wood flicks its goose aside,

holds hot the malediction kitchen march, oh marvelous me puddle

pulsing the river's run.  He speaks static, flicks the bristled coat and

ducklings disappear easier into every field's floor.  It is an arrow

bath clogging and cracking the code under the milk skirt snow.

Rebecca Loudon

from cadaver dogs

Two incredible books. Plus time spent roaming a swath of Woodlawn

Cemetary. Amazing statues. Lots of angels. Not every angel is demure or

holy, as Milton knew.