Lead Boots

She recalls the time before

his lead boots had

muddied the dense waters

of her existence,

a time she left barnacled wreckage


as if years since the burial.


Craving oxygen she’d surfaced,

portraying a dramaturgy

of frivolous, effusive behaviour;

Tourists view.


Witnessing purity wrapped in splendor,

he’d sought ownership of her narrative

trading pages of his own

from beer stained scripture.


Her creative non-fiction,

eyes and mouth in conflict,

detained him in a moments lifetime,

hogs tongue lapping,

craving intimacy.


In those, rib cage concertinaed moments,

one thumping heart,

arms and legs locked in twin-engine fury,

she steered him to the brink;

he sensed danger,

future stubborn as memory,

past quickening his stroke.


The greater the flaw

the deeper he trawled;

she longed for salvation,

he swallowed her whole,

feeding his hunger,

challenging debenture offerings,  

for full disclosure.


He gorged,

she wept upon a valedictory gesture.


And now?

as caution settled on debris,

a mere three hours from sinking,

she swore she’d

never surface again.

© 2017, David Ratcliffe (David Poetry Website)



once upon a chapter
i was

rubbing your parched lips with sand
while date-trees shadowed your masochism.
you kept asking for water
with a raucous voice,

and camels ignored us.

you died in my arms then,
smearing my cheek with your last breath
and naming me Maya

and i sieved my sand over you
to hide your corpse from vultures.

the next mouldy morning
you grew through me

into basic elements
you split me
seeking my water

ignoring the camels.

you planted a date
between my teeth
and closed my eyes
and taught me
that, which i already knew.

i died
winged by your breath then
and anointing you “unnamed”.

the date rooted in my mouth
and turned me into an oasis.
your oasis.

no camels – just water and date-trees.

and us.

© Liliana Negoi

from “The hidden well”

luke 10:25-37…

for some
neatly stacked
the riverside
for a few
an alter
from which
inner peace
alongside the road
a stone parable
no doubt
a travelling
good samaritan

© 2017, poem and illustration, Charles W. Martin, All rights reserved

Melissa Houghton | 3 Poems — Removed

Contributing Editor’s note: Melissa Houghton’s employer asked that she have her poems removed from my blogZine. As a publisher, editor, and writer, I believe the employer is wrong to do so. As a friend who respects Melissa and her work, I have removed it because she asked me to.

I have left the titles of the three poems so that Melissa can still list the publications on her literary-creative writing CV.

—Michael Dickel, 19 April, 2019


i just want to be my imperfect self


do not try.



Melissa Houghton


© 2017, Melissa Houghton

Michael Rothenberg and Mitko Gogov


Morning News

Michael Rothenberg

Hold me back!


you are,

Michael Rothenberg photo
Michael Rothenberg
@2015 Michael Dickel

if you are,
give me

the will
to keep

my mouth


The Forgotten Retort between Two Gazes

Mitkko Gogov
Translation from Macedonian by Aleksandar Mitovski

And so we role-play clockmaker and time
Both with hammers aimed at mutiny’s head
And a clock is a bigger bastard than both man and everlasting sun
As we forget burnt words and human dust

Ugly tongues and nasty minds
They drag the lent of the soul

The inner voice doesn’t (ever) go out,
Like angels’ dander or hell’s gasoline it just booms
Skip the small lightning bolts
Twist the lowest mountains
The force of forever would, like a mother to her son,
And barely ever
In the rood of our heads
Like snails
We hide our true home
Not realizing that the slime of our soul
Leaves traces of disquiet in our sleep

We keep the stars in our hands,
Why is it when we throw them
They strike like heavenly boulders?

Stones have learned to resound
Yet our dulled hearing needs to wake up!

Both fire and abyss alike
Are eternal
Just like our pensive, darling souls
Just like a shard in marbles, when our bell breaks
We are of piercing glass, yet
Troubled as the soul remembers
But knows not to reciprocate

We’re birds that have decided to build their own cage,
We sing of the freedom we’ve created
But the space in which we act is
Barely as large as our wingspan is

Be the river that desires to break through the cold
And the ice of the mountain whose home is winter

We all want to see the whole
We all want to be a part of someone’s whole
We want to add to the whole, bid for it,
Increase it, make it rich

Cripple it without realizing

As we don’t grasp we’re nothing but cutouts
A square on a Rubik’s cubepersevering, searching for its match
On the other side of the cube
We’re seemingly moving in a circle
Rolling all over the globe like a stolen bobbin of yarn
From grandma’s old chest.

We leave our people like
Forgotten church bells in our soul
Though we’d like their thoughts to echo
But you’d only hear the blood of your words
And angels pacing on the cobblestone road
Leaving without making a sound,
With a touch ingrained in us like a scar from child’s play
Like a mother’s hand holding a teaspoon of soup
Like a father’s lesson of how to chop kindling
Without losing a finger

We cut and we carve, but the truth can’t be carved,
Because, if we do, it will carve us back
And bury us six feet under
Even though we never brewed enough coffee
Even though we never leaped over enough bonfires
Even though we lied when we said that spirits came but we summoned witches
And the fairies choose our shadows as their mates
No, our shadows, like us, would rather hide in verses
And battle quietly for their hidden lives.

We’d rather be snow: white, clean, untarnished,
But you can’t keep snow in a jar, it won’t sit still,
Neither will love
Trapped, lonely, not shown, framed.

Love floats alone in a frame, like a cross-stitch
Of a woman spinning yarn as her wool is coming to an end.

Let’s make our minds ascent in a global fire
And resurrect the enchanted souls.

A forgotten retort between two gases

Please leave me
Leave my
Predicaments be

It’s not the time in which
The soil on its own and
By its own volition
Did turn over
And roll over

We all move,
Twist, roll over,
As we live we do not remember
Or notice,
While we’re dead
‘we do not eavesdrop
As others gossip about us’
Probably all spine issues are gone.

Leave the world be, darling,

It is not a part of you
Can’t you see in your naiveté, how,
Through your breath of lunacy they pass you by
They skip right over you
They won’t even cough anymore?
Leave the trams, darling,
In them fewer wishes are travelling these days

Mitko Gogov photo
Mitko Gogov
©2015 Michael Dickel

Towards you,
Inside you,
Next to you,
No more hands reaching out
No more raised voices

—we drown in our own outcry

We hope that hope as our last refuge
Will pay our debts
Will turn off the light
And in the end

Just like us all
Will leave
And go

To hell.


Michael Rothenberg has been living in the San Francisco Bay Area for the past 37 years but recently moved to Tallahassee. He is a poet, painter, songwriter, and editor of Big Bridge Press and Big Bridge, a webzine of poetry and everything else. In 2011 he and Terri Carrion co-founded the global poetry movement 100 Thousand Poets for Change.

His songs have appeared in Hollywood Pictures’ Shadowhunter and Black Day, Blue Night, and most recently, TriStar Pictures’ Outside Ozona. Other songs have been recorded on CDs including: Bob Malone‘s The Darkest Part of The Night (Caught Up in Christmas) and Bob Malone (Raydaddy’s Blues), Difficult Woman by Renee Geyer, Global Blues Deficit by Cody Palance, The Woodys by The Woodys, and Schell Game by Johnny Lee Schell.

His poetry books and broadsides are archived at the University of Francisco, and are held in the Special Collection libraries of Brown University, Claremont Colleges, University of Kansas, the New York Public Library, UC-Berkeley, UC-Davis, and UC-Santa Cruz.

Mitko Gogov lives in Macedonia, where he writes poetry, short stories, essays and journalism. He writes haiku, senriu, renga which he publishes occasionally in the micro blogosphere twitter, but once published in London by Yoko Ono as well. His work so far has been present and translated in several anthologies, collections and journals for literature and art in India, Pakistan, Philippines, USA, Russia, Spain, Mexico, Argentina, Check Republic, Germany, Serbia, Croatia, Albania, Bulgaria … He’s current with his first collection “Ice Water” published in 2011. in Serbia, and in 2014 issued in Macedonia, in the edition “Fires” for the publishing house “Antolog”, supported by the Ministry of culture.

As conceptual artist with several exhibitions, installations, performances, scenery, short movies and multimedia projects he participated in a few international group exhibitions and projects in Macedonia, Serbia, Bulgaria, France, Norway and Italy.

He is President of the Association for Cultural Development and Protection of Cultural Heritage “Kontext – Strumica” and organizer of the international movement and festival “100 Thousand poets for change” in Macedonia, Strumica. He is also the CEO & founder of the internet portal strumicaonline.net and one of the editors at the ezine for culture and literature in Macedonia, reper.net.mk. He organizes many other cultural and art events, collaborating with youth, art, film and theater festivals.

As youth trainer he provides different creativity workshops, such as: forum theater, multimedia, design, stick art, street art, graffiti, use of organic and recycled materials in contemporary art, handmade and social aspects as PEER & informal education, EVS, youth participation etc.

This post originally appeared on
Fragmentarily/ Metaphor(e) /Play.

Ms. Weary’s Blues


the helpless, hopeless, remorse-filled blues
when you’ve seen the doctor and she’s seen you
when Time runs out and Eternity beckons


the darkest hues with shivering slivers of
pewter muting to gray, muting to black,
muting to light fractures in a surface
permeable and permissible, heavenly Light

or, so “they” tell me …

But lost in that Universe of Light
will “I’ still be?
will “you” still be?
answer me that

What is the character of this Light?
Matter or myth?

Ah then…
after all, pondering on
I find I really don’t care
I’ll poem my blues and poem my light
until all that’s left of me is
what I leave behind…

and you?

Will you leave your unwritten
blue poem hanging in the air to be
sensed by the few who can?
Or, will you, like slaves of old,
paint yourself blue and boiling tears
dance round the fire’s edge and rebirth
your broken blue soul into wholeness?

This poem is written out of memory. Nothing untoward is pending … except, of course, for the fact of a world gone mad and who knows what’s next with that …

© 2017, Jamie Dedes (The Poet by Day), All rights reserved

not with a bang but a whimper, three poems


Your heart is smarter, my Baruch,
then your head,
which is smart indeed –
and your hands and gnarly fingers
are smarter still.
They fashion bread from
cream-colored flours,
silky to the touch.
Kneading the dough
patiently, patiently
letting it rise
while I sleep –
safe, in my bed.

Up at six a.m. we walk sleepily
down a lavender-gray street,
an apricot sun peeking at us
and, rising higher in the sky,
it seemingly follows us to you.

Cheer-filled arrival with greetings
and smiles from dear Baruch and
warm sugar smells, yeasty scents
and the sight of golden loaves,
some voluptuous rounds and
others, sturdy rectangulars.
You have baked cinnamon rolls,
a child’s delight, pies and
sticky buns too…and cookies!

“We’ll take a French bread” my Mom says
pointing to a crispy brown baguette.
“And a raisin bread.”
She adds …
“We’ll need that sliced.”

I watch your hands flit gracefully
like butterflies in a green valley
stopping here and then there
to pull fragrant loaves from display
and slicing them, neatly packaging,
then reaching down over the counter
you hand me a little bag of rugelach.

As I look up, reaching for your gift
I stop breathing, arrested by
a wisp of blue on your forearm.
I am studious, a reader, dear Baruch,
I know what that tattoo means …
Looking down, with a whisper I choke
“Thank you, Baruch!”
swallowing that lump of sadness,
trying not to show my tears.
What right have I to tears?
But then you, dear Baruch, come
bounding round the counter
with warm hugs and soft tissues,
as though I was the one hurt.
From that day forever more,
I saw you only in long sleeves.

At lunchtime, I demanded –
“Mom, tell me about Baruch.”
And she does.
I am pensive over our meal,
canned marinara and slices of
of your baguette.
Dear Baruch, with each salty bite
I eat your tears and
the blood of your daughter.
Nights she stares at me from that
sepia photo by your register.

Baruch, did she, like me, assume
a grown-up life
of school and jobs,
marriage and children?
And you! You must have assumed
the tender comfort of
her love in your old age.
Do you hold the vision of her
young and happy in your
brave, kindly old heart?
Does your ear still play back
her childish laughter,
the sound of her voice
begging for a story?
Do your warm brown eyes still hold
her smile in remembrance?
When you see little girls like me,
does your anguish grow?

Dear Baruch, our dear Baruch
how will you set your child free
from that faraway land and
cold, unmarked mass grave?

© 2008, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; photograph of a holocaust survivor displaying his arm tattoo courtesy of Frankie Fouganthin under CC BY-SA 2.0 license


Some mothers’ children stare unseeing
No sweet, wet baby kisses from blistered lips,

. . . . songs unsung

No wedding portraits to dust and treasure
No graduations or trips to the sea

. . . . just their bodies to bury


by the engine of nihilism

Limbs cracked and broken, bellies torn
Faces purpled, hearts stopped

Hearts stopped …
. . . . hearts stopped

Some mothers’ hearts have stopped

Some mother's children
Some mothers’ children

© 2015, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; photograph of some mothers’ children killed in the Syrian Civil War, Ghouta massacre/uploaded by Bkwillwm to Wikipedia under CC BY 3.0 license (I believe it may be a screen shot from a news video)


what must it be like for you in your part of the world?
there is only silence, i don’t know your name, i know only
that the fire of Life makes us one in this, the human journey,
trudging through mud, by land and by sea, reaching for the sun
like entering a ritual river without a blessing or a prayer
on the street where you lived, your friends are all gone
the houses are crushed and the doves have flown
there is only silence, no children playing, no laughter
here and there a light remains to speak to us of loneliness,
yet our eyes meet in secret, our hearts open on the fringe,
one breath and the wind blows, one tear and the seas rise,
your grief drips from my eyes and i tremble with your fear

© poem, 2016, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Mindanao Bleeding-heart at London Zoo, England courtesy of Drew Avery under CC BY-SA 2.0 license

One of My Tomorrows

(for Celia)

Our last goodbye was casual
as if I would see you again
on one of my tomorrows

I touched your arm
you flinched. In pain.
I felt a persistent guilt

Born of carelessness
that only nervous uncertainly
could freely demonstrate

Born of the habitual assumption
that you were in charge
you weren’t. Not really.

You never were, save
your own sense o duty
to boss, ay care for everyone

Too much on small shoulders
that weren’t as strong as the
force of that inner being

The force that stopped being
that was someone once
whom I loved and miss

Some time after we’d helped you
to meet your God, one starlit night
I heard your voice as clear as the sky

O lamb of God, who takes away
the sins of the world, have mercy
and grant us peace. I swear

© 2017, John Anstie

patriarichal wounds …

joan of arc statue
touchstone for abused women
healing fear’s deep wounds

© 2017, peom and illustration, Charles W. Martin

Poetry and Prayer

2017, poem, Phillip T. Stephens; Milky Way background courtesy of European Southern Observatory

PTSD Children

when the fear of war
in the night grasps a child’s heart
hymns of love are sung

© 2017, Charles W. Martin

Rachel Heimowitz | Three Poems from Israel


across the water

his eyes lashed
          in kohl, mornings alone
he sheathes his arm
          in prayer, sets another
between his eyes,
          kisses the thick skin,
the cured smell, the animal
          warmth beneath. these
are the salted days of august,
          days of hamsin
when even evening breathes
          hot on his neck,
each moment an empty
          pocket, each seam tarred, sulfurous
and sour. on the bus
          the old, sephardi men tell him, wet
your lips. go ahead
          and wet your lips
on sweetness. don’t think
          about the ecru of your skin
or the way it clings
          to the bone.
you too will wake
          to a man’s full weight
in a hand nailing
          your head to the bed,
will burn
          and crease into morning
sheets well worn. and death,
          that savage savior,
will walk across your water,
          enter your house,
a shabaknik in a flannel shirt,
          each shoulder stiff
with power,
          each shawled in prayer.


Originally in December, 2016

The Scent of Salt

Outside a cottage at the edge
          of a silver desert, a camel dreams to breathe  
                    the salt, the sea. He twists
                              his head around to view the woman
                                        he carries and where he came from,

over the hot, pitted hills and the many
          varieties of salt, the ones that stink
                    of sulfur, their crystal layers mixed with silt,
                              the ones that comfort his burning
                                        feet in talc, the ones that sit like ice

floes on briny water. The variety that forms
          a woman, her arms
                    outstretched, waiting
                              for her stolen sons, those who melted
                                        in the Land of Og,

burned and buried
          in a shallow grave. In her
                    dreams she rides the camel.
                              When he walks
                                        she knows the stormy waves have overtaken her.

When he runs she whispers
          the seventy secret names of God
                    from her peeling lips
                              and walks on water
                                        to where her sons play in the desert salt.

Their feet are oars, their hands                                                     
          braid the camel’s hair to baskets
                    painted gold. She crouches there
                              in the blistered sand, spitting the husks
                                        of sunflower seeds over

the fences men erect in fear.
          Salt coats their tongues.
                    The camel opens his dry mouth.
                              Like a woman lost, his cry
stretches over the desert.


Originally in Spillway 2015

Ode to a Young Girl Sold

little light rises morning within morning
hands chafed clean from defile,
knuckle after knuckle pearled, bread
and boiled water, alive and silent,
as wind, as snow, muted to two dark

Rachel Heimowitz

braids. yet the innocence of thin limbs,
winced in a bathroom, rashed red
across her delicate back, penicillin
inside the animal she carries
pierced to her skeleton. night
within night anointed in hard breath
and the oiled smell of lubricant.
little light, eyes bleached in the ice
of his smile, no hand, no belt, just frozen sweat
and the sound of a doll drowning in snow.


Originally in Tinderbox Volume: 3 Issue: 4

the red coat

the red coat ::

the red coat
was hiding
under layers,
but i saw it.
red it is, worn, shabby.

a friend you say.

lining cream silk crumple.
the label
harris tweed,
heather washed,
as old.

the back a thin satin sash
to tie.
oh lovely coat
i love you.

away for coffee
a biscuit.

back to the red coat,
tried it, and looked daft in it,
and imagined how it would be.

hungry i would wear it,
run on the moor, windy,
a cotton dress beneath,
grubby knees,

old boots, and wrap it round me.
night garden, pyjamas,
and the red coat looking
at the moon.

slight smell of camphor,
and lavender,
un threading,
pockets with notes,
and hankies
and all well, all well.

men will sing with three voices,
and dance in their suits,
and i will be headlost, and dizzy.
leaving the coat
to bathe in pools
of light, under green,
dripping back into
the coat , red coat.

they say i said too much about the coat last night,
and did I look daft, and i will never buy it
but it is already mine,
headed forever, calling it to at will

red coat.
i will say more, and more, red coat.

I love you red coat.

© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher RCA UA

Science Fiction


There are things that science doesn’t know,

things that science doesn’t tell us

except that our loins grow together

with the rising of Arcturus, and

while we shiver and caress and

watch a planet’s light diminish

our loins intertwine; flower

beneath the final

falling stars.


Merely a minor uprising on Sol 3 MW-4911:

The official and only recorded notice

of the final rebellion.

We killed their last poet

in the first wave to fall.

He said, “Beauty isn’t binary.”)

(Or similar cryptic summary that

I may not clearly recall).

We captured millions when

the third wave collapsed,

jettisoned them without life support

into space.


After 10,500 x 14 hours of computer simulations we deduced the only solution to forestall our desiccation is called water. Water could have been collected from Sol 3 MW-4911, except we mined its arctic for minerals no longer of value and discarded it after centuries of disuse.


Have you seen our moon?

It hung like a scythe

on the night you were conceived.

And soon, on this shelf,

as temperatures fall,

I’ll push and breathe,

push and I’ll breathe and

Fear your emerging face.

© Phillip T. Stephens

Image rights: Jskteez Vu – Licensed under Creative Commons Zero

Socks | Michael Dickel

My famous black socks

Michael Dickel

At three in the morning
I hand wash my socks,
my bladder emptied,
the toilet flushed.
These pressure socks
help stop the pain
and swelling from
my varicose veins.

I realize the water
will never run clear,
black dye running
away from the
I assume. And
I think, this poem
is not very sexy.

For that, I should
lay next to my wife,
who sleeps in
the next room as
I wring the socks.
We should share
a cigarette. You
know, how the
movies used
to show sex.

Except we don’t
smoke. And we’ve
spent the day
caring for her
mother with cancer
and a broken arm.

I caught up on a bit
of work tonight,
wrote to a couple
of friends, edited
something, sent
a poem or two
to editors who
know or don’t
know me.

my socks will be
clean. And, I think,
that’s not so bad.

© 2017, Michael Dickel

Spring in my Sundays

Swimming through Sundays’
the corners of my eyes are spinning with
the storms of butterflies
Refresh, Oh, Lady Spring
my will of life!
My core, my spirit,
let them be touched by
the holy wind of light and warmth
The law of colour green with broad brushes
splash it on my trees
Make no mistake when chirping birds
will call your blessing
Abandon us in your blue skies
Oh, Lady Spring
Cuddle my spades of grass with your smile and
Let me kneel at your broad altar

© 2017 Iulia Gherghei

Standing Post: Trees in Practice

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers.
I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves.
And even more I revere them when they stand alone.
They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche.”
Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

No hard benches for me, or pulpits, altars or holy books,
give me skies of blue with cirrus wisps that scribble truths.
Gatherings of trees are my sangha, age old wisdom expounded
from the roughened bark and steadfast trunks that abide in calmness.
Their messages aren’t harsh and do not tell of hell and brimstone death
but instead teach trust in their brethren and nature as teachers.
Leaves and boughs happily greet as the breeze gently lifts in a
tender, quiet song of connected joy that is shared with those below.
Peace and harmony reign here in this sacred space of believers.
“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers.”

Their serenity is multiplied when gathered in great throngs.
There is no jostling for favoritism or pushing aside of others
so that they may be held in higher esteem; trees teach humility.
It is hallowed ground that supports trees. I whisper in their midst.
You, I venerate as I sit at your feet and feel your gifts permeate my soul.
Quiet, meditating in one place…be still, find earth’s hidden treasure troves.
Strong, yet yielding in the face of seasons’ harshness; I bow O Masters.
My heart is restored and a reverence is imparted to me that uplifts.
Mystical beings dance and play among your holy, secret alcoves.
“I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves.”

Isolated or living apart from one another, trees lift their limbs in resilience.
Though alone, rooted to the ground, they are visited and inhabited by
birds, animals, myriad bugs and even air plants that join them.
Stoic and steadfast is the solitary sentinel.
When separate and alone they stand like quiet beacons in the fog.
Having no others to entangle their branches, they sometimes feel unknown.
They stretch and reach out and up, vainly feeling for a neighbor.
But do their hearts languish or brood when kept to themselves?
O lone willow whose drooping branches caress a pond, here you are sown.
“And even more I revere them when they stand alone.”

Patience and endurance rule in the heart of the ancient oak.
Wisdom reflects from her heart where the Great Horned Owl resides.
Distinguished, with ancient ties to Vikings and Tigers, she rests.
These Masters of Stillness have taught contemplation since millennia.
Like the Crane poised to strike a fish, they wait in silence.
They draw strength from the community of all species.
Their brilliance is oftentimes overshadowed by their infinite modesty and grace.
The hum of om strums through their leaves gaining strength on the wind that then plays out into the universe.
These stately, wizened beings spend their lives in harmony, no need for treaties.

© 2017, poem, Gayle Walters Rose; photograph, 2017, Jamie Dedes

“They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche.”

*Standing Post is a martial arts form based in Chi Kung. This Glosa was inspired by a dear friend who has mastered this form.

Teaching Poetry | Michael Dickel


Teaching that (in)famous “Poetry”

Michael Dickel

(apologies to Marianne Moore)

Her (dis)like of poetry showed through
her pure contempt while reading it. She thought
high interpretation of the unintelligible half poets
elevated an autopsy to a false revery for birth, and
that all the academics criticize what they understand
would be detrimental to their careers. She wanted
a genuine toad, not a prince, an imaginary secret
garden, no flowers, a raw poem eaten, savored,
complete with a belch after gulping beer.

My students hate the image of an autopsy,
don’t like to consider births except in the abstract,
think if someone says “poetry,” then, poetry.

Abstract amphibious poetry
Digital art from photos
©2017 Michael Dickel

What use definitions, declinations, nuance
or inflections? Metaphors just hide the truth,
what matters comes out straight and clear.
Who cares about red wheelbarrows,
blackbirds, or pigeons, for that matter?

And certainly, they argue, we don’t dislike
all that we don’t understand.

Originally appeared in Fragmentarily/ Metaphor(e) /Play.

© 2017, Michael Dickel