Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
IN THE DIRT
My impulse to dig in the dirt
Bare hands instructing the motion
Of the fertile land as though
Opening a door with no knob
A window with no home
The dirt glitters only to beg
For direction but stays
There are no fields but your own
The best is out of reach to those
That chooses to trespass
The night's veins are thin
The rain falls leveling the
Land and its products
But morning passes, and the
Day realizes the night's
A SHORT STORY
A large pile of ashes is cupped in his hands.
The town is still sleepy.
It is wrapped in counting trees that
lead to sleep.
When the town woke up, there were no trees
only ash cupped in a man's hand.
Brandon S. Roy, Carencro, Louisiana
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