Ann Arbor Review


Gerald Clark
Lyn Lifshin
Paul B. Roth
Ndue Ukaj
Anne Babson
Laszlo Slomovits
Qinqin Huang
Duane Locke
Adhar Maheshwari
Shutta Crum
Odimegwu Onwumere
Anthony Seidman
Chris Lord
Running Cub
Amit Parmessur
John F. Buckley &
Martin Otto

Joanie Freeman
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits

Sonnet Mondal
Karyn M. Bruce
John Tustin
Jennifer Burd
Michael Gessner &
Daniel Davis

Martin Camps &
Anthony Seidman

Fred Wolven

Holly Day

M. J. Iuppa
John Grochalski
Catherine O'Brien
Joe Milford
Byron Matthews
Joseph Murphy
Dike Okoro

Steve Barfield





Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2012 Fred Wolven
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida


Fred Wolven, editor

Submissions via e-mail:




you were standing by the coke machine
you had pet names for him your attitude
wrapped in leather and faded jeans
you much thinner than last week even
so pale I want to hold you see if you'd break
you lean against the brick and it pulls
blond silk flax from your hair you discard
everything with a gaze intent on nothing
your words destitute except over graves
walking away hands in your pockets bloodshot
blue suns burning in their sockets as leaves
crunch under your feet I wonder about
spring and what does it do to someone like you
and every street in the city is your street
and you live everyday on pins and needles
and your life all depends on the ends and means
of needles and their pet names as the first day
I saw you on the park bench smiling a barbed-wire fence
I gave you money for a kiss, all is temporary
at best, now I can only leave you with concern
the way of requiems, the way bridges burn


Joe Milford, rural Georgia (outside Atlanta)



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