Ann Arbor Review


Richard Kostelanetz
Karyn M. Bruce
Duane Locke
Lyn Lifshin
Rich Ives
Chris Lord
Anton Gojcaj
Donal Mahoney
Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
A. J. Huffman
Bhisma Upreti
Ali Znaidi
Paul B. Roth
Joan Colby
Rexhep Shahu
Catherine McGuire
Michelle Bailat-Jones
April Salzano

Kufre Udeme
Jane Butler
Jennifer Burd
Peycho Kanev
Joanie Freeman
Jennifer Burd &
Laszlo Slomovits
Frederick Pollack
Fahredin Shehu
Holly Day
Serena Wilcox
Ndue Ukaj
Running Cub

Fred Wolven
Allison Grayhurst
Rose Mary Boehm
Michael D. Long
Jim Davis
Christopher Dungey
Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Jason Ryberg
Douglas Polk
Janine Canan


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2013 Silver Grey Fox
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven

Submissions via e-mail:




The drama of
that icy curb
where a great new place
redeems the block:
no climax, only a tableau
of hurrying hosts
who insensibly slow
for that girl and the guy--
he thirtyish, square,
but she in fur,
textured thigh-high
stockings, kicky
stiletto boots, pearl studs, Poeme,
with cheekbones to die for, sungold hair;
and as they cross
from limo to door
(the numinous lasts
that long), she smiles,
adept in mating with depressive ghosts.


Always after major battles
a certain general visited
a Master.  He annoyed the Master,
invisibly, but greatly.  Not because of
the pyramids of skulls
(we all have our role,
our fate), the crudeness
(to be expected), the absence
of even a pretense of interest
in the Teachings (it confirmed them);
rather a certain straining for effect,
an inconsequentiality:
"The wind was strong from the north
against their arrows; afterwards,
they lay among the twigs.
The storm had blown away
not the usual sounds and smells,
but some unsuspected miasma.
It was one of those days
when the weak and strong of lung
find equal air, when the self
helplessly issues urgent
bulletins into a void.  A beautiful day
in short, and I wondered
if beauty is not merely
the defeat of an enemy
but his humiliation, without hope
of reversal, and if I am that enemy."


At what point is "unearned emotion,"
sentimentality, earned?
It used to upset Mother
that I was upset
by the thousands of lit windows
we passed, driving.
So many lives, too many,
I remember feeling, not shy.
Their weight, the variable future?
Or an already accruing
fear of the outsider's costly power?
As on this icy night,
crossing a parking lot,
not knowing the neighborhood;
even the question Rich or poor
dodged by the wealth of neon;
and a row of town houses
seen from the rear,
the brick saying nothing, only the lights:
a cabinet, clean enough.
A woman's stubby arm holding a wall.
A refrigerator door
with a child's drawing, all tangles.
The televisions on.

Frederick Pollack,
Washington, D. C.

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