Issue Four

Summer 2012



Instead of the lily, consider the Crocus
longiflorus, think on its star or blue windmill
of David and the droplet of fire drawing-pinned
to its heart or throat, and act the common vandal,

drop-kicking a good handful of its pursed-lip seeds,
dusting them across the clean white sheet of a wide
green field; let them nuzzle warmly at the soil’s cracks,
guests wrecking the guest-room bed; later, at home, sit

alone, where nothing remains to be grown or said
—angels dancing, weightless, in a Zippo lighter—
and ease off your muddy boots, your feet still inside,

and clear your throat of its slight Blind Willie Johnson
edge, devote the still-life evening to chancing
your arm at de- and restringing the old guitar...


Adam Crothers