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


I assume the roots above ground
Are holding hands
With roots underground, and the sand
Does not know or sense
The pulsations and the grip of wood
But the grackles that cross the sand
Leave foot tracks on the sand
And the foot tracks send messages
To black or brown and black feathers.

The tangential is rhizomatic,
Be it wood, or human hands.

A nearby willow tree that shadows
Wood ducks and the water,
Its shade twisted over her
Black wearing apparel to disappear,
Except for a trace on her little finger.
The shade moved over to become
A dark, vague, vaporous wedding ring.

White moths flutter over the grasses
Spiked seed pods and bring loneliness.

The choir of air sings higher notes;
Clipped the barbed wire of angels' wings.

The antennae of ants become audible,
It is the listening,
The listening that sinks the listener
Inside the earth and the wisdom of worms.

Duane Locke


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