Fall 2011

Edited by BLAS FALCONER | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT



Poetry

Transcription Project

Billy Reynolds


I lay on my back for awhile dozing in the grass.
There was a lamppost on my heart casting dumb light. 
I was left to chance. I made much of what I felt
and drank coffee standing up as a church bell

chimed the hour. I could tell you those broken graves 
looked like teeth, that the burial records were lost, 
burned in a fire way back. But was I lonely,
the same green clapboard house shut tight,
the same Schwinn bike turned over all winter?

It was the same story every day for a week straight. 
I watched the light jump from stone to stone,
a rectangular flash of intense light, then nothing. 
Then I wiped every sandstone with my hand.
I knelt in a shade of shades without a name. 

 

 




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