Ann Arbor Review


Chris Lord
Joseph McNair
Karyn M. Wolven
Geoffrey Philp
Paul B. Roth
Duane Locke
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Felino Soriano
Steve Beaulieu
Donald Hewlett
Alan Britt
Joanie Freeman
Mervyn M. Solomon
Jerry Blanton
Marilyn Churchill
Running Cub
Mukul Dahal
Alice Paris

Helen Losse
Fred Wolven






Darkness rose like vines among
the fences.  The shadows held
themselves still, spoke among
thieves.  This morning,
Chuck, the neighborhood dog
got trampled by a truck, died,
slowly.  I'll remember,
the shaking and stretched
out howl, the screech of the truck's
too-late halt.  I'll remember,
his almost laugh when he'd lope
into our homes, his homes,
tracking in dirt, tracking in
excitement from the chase,
the catch--I'll always remember,
for the photograph hung softly
atop my wall is staying exactly
where it is.


Outside my open window,
the sky an absolute blue
with waves of pigeons
crossing each other like
time and death.  There's
a metaphor waiting, always
one with its tail up asking
to be pulled into me, or a sentence
hanging from a branch, ripe,
ready to fall across the ground
of a page.  If I could only find
one, one with enough meat
to fill the stomach of ten poems.

Felino Soriano, Santa Maria, California



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