INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Paul B. Roth
John F. Buckley &
Jennifer Burd &
Karyn M. Bruce
Michael Gessner &
Martin Camps &
M. J. Iuppa
Ann Arbor Review <![endif]>
is an independent
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Copyright (c) 2012
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida
Fred Wolven, editor
"What changes over time is what is seen and what
is seen is
how everybody's doing everything. What is seen depends
on what is there to see and how we look at it.
You've seen how the inner city's neighborhood shrinks
as it decomposes, brick by brick--how porches &
roofs cave in--nails pop, disappearing into rumble, so
rain & wind can find a split seam and steal their way
in to wear their welcome out, leaving a blister
of paint, a ring of water stain, a bicycle left tipped
over in the back yard with its rusty red wheels spinning...
What would Thoreau say about this tranquility?
No one is there, you way, as if your thought will make us
My first husband was a rough carpenter. He would
stand in doorways and yell into the emptiness
I imagine, no, remember, the bleak farmhouse in winter--its worn
clapboard, slipping off its foundation--its gate, unhinged yet stuck,
like the toys left in the front yard's mud. Worse than no fun,
farmhouse sapped the living daylights out of a quarter century, making
all of us wonder why these strangers ever came here? Eye sore, for
until someone gave the okay to plant windmills on the property--after
it was a matter of time.
M. J. Iuppa, Hamlin, New York