Issue Three

Spring 2012




Mossy shadows of a furtive sentry
jump in the corners of our eyes.
It takes a moment to make out his cape,
see its wool slipping through gaps.

As if practiced, he sweeps at webs
balls them into sticky gobs.
His lantern glows through cracks.
Not just wind crawls into the seams.

The ground is thick and heavy,
moldering in peat, bursting smells
of worm and dirt wherever he steps.
The way here is how it’s always been,

and when he sees our cheeks have dried,
he’ll drop his cape, turn and smile.




Larry Jordan

red fractal