Ann Arbor Review


Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Lyn Lifshin
Rich Ives
Chris Lord
Anton Gojcaj
Donal Mahoney
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
A. J. Huffman
Bhisma Upreti
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Joan Colby
Rexhep Shahu
Catherine McGuire
Michelle Bailat-Jones
April Salzano

Kufre Udeme
Jane Butler
Jennifer Burd
Peycho Kanev
Joanie Freeman
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Frederick Pollack
Fahredin Shehu
Holly Day
Serena Wilcox
Ndue Ukaj
Running Cub

Fred Wolven
Allison Grayhurst
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Jim Davis
Christopher Dungey
Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Jason Ryberg
Douglas Polk
Janine Canan



Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2013 Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


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Gunter has been around a long time
he grips his tail and rolls on back to the cave
can you feel the circles getting smaller

or you might climb a tree
and fall into the earth that keeps it climbing
Gunter could be a party of

rock throwing and tree climbing and cloud welcoming
or you might speak the word for descending cloud
which has fallen onto the page of the fallen tree

here Gunter is right now before your eyes nothing but ink
on a flattened tree hold on to your head before it
explodes with insignificance

haven't you ever felt rock as dust losing itself in a falling cloud
on the way through rain to allow drinking and through a falling man
to the bottom of a cave with no man but only what the water carries

this is not the cloud paradise you have pissed away with so little effort
unless a prison can travel everywhere unless a prison can lift itself
and fall again unless the prison is the way a man thinks about himself

I is a lie like a box with a wooden key that was never closed
like a man with pieces of himself that he lives in to keep out
the terrifying cloud that befriended the tree and raised it

I is a lie like a lake full of rain that fell to an altered purpose before
falling into the root of a tree or trying again with evaporating shoes and
an almost weightless dust taxi with a deep desperate need not to be desperate

you is I with a tree between brought down for words and a man
and a woman who is in that man might be more than that man
but wants him to be that man even if that man is another woman

you is I with a rock between throwing itself into falling apart
an inspired teacher with a lesson so slow you have to die several times
a wheel beneath a cart returning to the idea that carried it under

I is the lie that separates Gunter from a Gunter but attaches
the cart to the wheel and the load to the purpose
Gunter's I cannot go there without the man's knowledge


Rich Ives,
Camano Island, Washington



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