Jerry Benjamin
NO UNHAPPY REASON
there was the world which seemed to be hovering on the
brink of
thought. Reaching rope's end with several apparent things
drifting away.
Such occurences form convenient spots for highlighting the
second half.
Coincidences with genuine history.
In
this case, the line
has been more than merely arbitrary.
A painted black and white curtain.
Blood might be the ultimate fountain of youth.
The elixir Ponce De Leon craved coursed through his veins .
Peter Leight
LEAVING AIOLIA
Silver wires of wind, and west wind
lofted in soft quartering breeze.
Aiolia-thy delicate white
sands pressed to the sea going ou t,
covering the dead from me, thy
drifting shores and flared metallic
walls lifted toward a wall-eyed
land where life is holding and the
dark years have thrown less dark shadows–
lift me to windward: it is a
wanderer's rhythm to find home last.
