Between Emily Carr and the orca topiary. The Empress.
Perhaps the bees were sleeping.
Morning, she said, smiling.
Up early, he replied. Going to work?
You could say that.
The cool wind swept her along, rags of smoke spotted her wake.
She cut corners, scoffed at lines.
Names on bricks (too many to count) between bricks w/o names
The work-in-progress of Pollock gulls
An old clock that’s standing still
He wanted total darkness when he slept, not a crack of light.
When he left the room, he wanted to leave without
making a sound.
He didn’t want the jam to drop from his thumbprint scone.
And the real challenge is to get a little jam in every bite.
He wanted every line to be title-worthy (here he thought of
Paradise—or something less mythic, unreal—could be abstracted
from this uneven cloth.
And the opposite could be true.
Pike Place is crowded and by the time they find parking (on Western)
the sun is out
• A busking young man tries to answer their queries
re: the boysenberry
• They wait in a jumbled line to buy a miniature Space Needle
sculpted from St. Helens’ ash
• B. finally gets the fish toss on her Fuji
Back at the Red Lion (Missy has won again, Gabby is on the road to Cornflakes),
before C. resorts (once again) to invisible ink, he pulls a couple strings,
ushers in a few conscripts, and cajoles a let’s see.
About the author
R L Swihart was born in Michigan but now resides in Long Beach CA. (He just completed a “road trip” — from Long Beach…Read the full bio
Issue 17 · March 2013
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Three Poems by R L Swihart
- Saw Instrumental
- Two poems by Jim Burke
- The Pink Apartment
- An Evening in the Hamptons
- Two poems by Dalton Day
- On the way to Udhagamandalam II
- Eureka, California
- A Clip from Tomorrow
- Amsterdam II : Scarring the Plate
- Two poems by Maria Apichella
- Late Summer
- A Common Language
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes