Carmella Neal, Editor

The field is a green lake 

feverishly decorated in dew 

and he sits all consumed 

in the fog swimming by 


A crow sits on its post 

he feels its surveillance

it doesn’t matter when they spy

the cloud cover doesn’t jury on Tuesdays 


Why has he seen this morning before

with someone else 

        it makes him feel pain 

overwhelmed by the fragile mist, it sensitively weeps 

the corridor on the far end is hidden 

and he sinks in its abyss