Issue 12

Summer 2014



The light is growing scarce
these days. Soon frosts will sear
our cropped and sleepy acres.
I play my act, give what’s due to the sower,
the reaper, and the rest of the crew.
I’m weary of my straw-stuffed arse.
God, I wish I were a crow. My throat is sore
with silence. Birds fly free without a care,
the sky is theirs; they know their score –
I dream of wings to soar, to wear
the air, fly high. Caw caw caw.


Jane Røken