Neither Fission Nor Fusion
A poem by Ed Tato
there’s a bug stain on my windshield
that’s like the birthmark
on your breast:
scarlet,
globular,
barbed and vivid at the edges
where the splatter points burst past the
circumference.
there’s a hand of twenty-one
in the Black Jack Diner,
where the tar meets gravel:
the ace of hearts and the jack of hearts.
there’s a camel on a farm in the county,
sprawling in the field.
it is the focus of a flock of sheep.
there’s a wall in the prairie
stretching from a trailer,
a wall of piled limestone
or corded firewood.
there’s a library
ahead somewhere,
with pictures of coronas and eclipses.
Fall 2006 Poetry:
READING HOPKINS IN PALOS VERDES
by Andrew Demcak
REFLECTIONS ON WRITING by Jann
Burner
THEY BUILT A WALL AROUND THE OCEAN
by Lily Bower
VISITING CAVE CREEK by Nicholas
Messenger
PUBLISHER'S NOTE and ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
by Benjamin Bucholz
THERE IT IS by Hannah Price
GEOMETRY AND A LETTER by Laura
McKee
SENEGALESE GROVE by Holly Day
AFRICA by Kathryn Wagner
DEFINITION OF A TREE by Christine
Hamm
AFTER MY NAME IS SPOKEN by Meridith
Gresher
SHAPES IN THE AIR by Carolyn
Syrgley-Moore
NEITHER FISSION NOR FUSION by Ed
Tato
CLEAVINGS by Hank Kalet
A PILGRIM'S PROGRESS by KC Wilder
WHAT YOU WOULD CALL A LOOSE GHAZAL, I
REGARD AS
ANOTHER SMALL, BUT NECESSARY, STEP TOWARD RECOVERY by James
R. Whitley
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