Poetry from the 2013 issue.
There are people whose feet, one could
don’t quite fill up their socks.
You hear things. I see them.
You start dressing by undressing.
The candles go out when the dark does.
Days become years. Years
become places. Then you must go.
Thirty-three years. Said three times,
it makes a hundred. I can count.
You can tease a tree or a person,
not kill a frog.
Windy drought. A southern damp contrives