Ann Arbor Review


Geoffrey Philip
Joseph McNair
Chris Lord
Coleman Barks
Dave Etter
Elisavietta Ritchie
Sam Cornish
Duane Locke
Karyn Wolven
Marisella Veiga
Michael D. Long
Running Cub
Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Shutta Crum
Steve Beaulieu
Gerald Clark
Mary E. Finlan
Fred Wolven

Fred Wolven


The multitude of attempts at love not receiving a response
Are on the increase,
                            Thought Casanova,
                                                            As he watched
The shadows of the bars of his prison
                                                                   by the bridge
Of Sighs shake
On his white silk shirt as he breathed.  His
Real capacities
Had fallen short of his ideals.  Below were the squeals
Of flat-stopped-straw hat
Selling small glass replicas of long gondolas.  Now
He lived by the banal,
                                     Repeated every thirty minutes,
"Walls do not a prison make.  Walls do not a prison
Make.  Walls do not a prison make."  Casanova
Even considered the proposition
That squeals are superior to ideals.  He remembered
In his youth,
Hearing such wisdom, "As you must know the rules
Before the rules are broken."  He struggled all his life
Against the rules, trying to overcome rules, trying
To be disobedient to the rules, trying
To break the rules.
                                                   Then he discovered
When imprisoned there are no rules.  The rules
Never existed.
The rules were myths, the rules were lies.  He had
Spent all his life
Breaking the rules.  He had worked hard to break
The rules.  He had suffered to break the rules,
And he arrived at one certainty.  The certainty,
Rules do not exist.  Those who swear that rules
Exists are liars.

Casanova noticed that the dancing and elusive shadows
Of the static and solid prison bars
On his white silk shirt were wet with tears.

Duane Locke, Tampa, Florida


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