Poetry selection from the 2005 issue
Reports of Being Easily Crazed, Like Snow—
by Lita Sorenson
The whiteness produces madness. The long spiral downfall
of interceding white cusps gather into darkness and swirl
away from the flash light. The cold blinds us, and we
squint in the night.
This is not a game. Somehow we have lost our way down
the grove of old oaks that grow like statues,
their silent arms lifting white amorphous clouds
above crowns so they seem to float. The ravine cuts
through the earth like a dark sore slitting white skin
and we fear it.
Still, we continue. Yellow house lights swim ahead
dizzy beacons we can just make out. We taste snow,
we taste tinny smells of unease.
Somewhere out there is God. We are sure of it
as we are sure of how wind blows snow dunes
in sub zero drifts through Nebraska.
It would be easy to see stars glinting like ice crystals,
so distant tonight that they seem nonexistent points
of light that can’t touch us. But even they are lost
We cry out, we wave our arms for someone, the trees maybe,
a wayward dog, to see us, to run to us like an old friend
with arms outstretched at the end of a road. But there are only
shifting sheets of snow.