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


The sun was using the rose petals
For a sliding board.  After the slid,
A shine on the sliding surface, but behind
Darkness and indistinction.

I said to the roses that I spoke
A superimposed language, hoping
It would awaken roses from their dogmatic slumber
And the roses would become oracles.

But the roses were sad in our postmodern age,
Said, "We are nostalgic for a rococo age,
When roses
Suffused the atmosphere and rubbed
Against the bodies of Enlightenment nudes."

I thought of poets in English Gardens, owned
By someone sweating in India, saying to no one,
"Go lovely rose."  So I said to myself,
Although I imagined I was talking to her,
"Go, with your lovely pose."

I think of this artificial abstraction, so commonsensical,
So Parmenidean, what will she be
In ten years, a generation, a century.
She, a magician, that pulls a playground out of a prison.
Her freckles are shackles, her lip
The electric chair.

I, named and nameless, untangle the snares,
Is it poison ivy or ivory spun into thin threads.
Is the moon under the animal mask.

Duane Locke


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