Ann Arbor Review


Robert Nisbet
Alan Britt
Jennifer Burd
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Running Cub
Elisavietta Ritchie
Odimegwu Onwumere
Laszlo Slomovits
Lyn Lifshin
Ramesh Dohan
Silvia Scheibli
Alex Ferde
Richard Kostelanetz
Richard Gartee
Irsa Ruci
Duane Locke
Janet Buck
Nahshon Cook

Jim Daniels
Fred Wolven
Peycho Kanev
Ali Znaidi
Sunday Eyitayo Michael
Karyn M. Bruce
Arsim Halili
Engjell I. Berisha
Muharrem Kurti

Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2015 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 48 years all together....


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


Submissions via e-mail:




In this one we do go off the road. Right across into the soft venture

of the snow, frozen pond, and field. Watch this moonlip sparkle descend;


your hand, too, I take it. This idea, this dare (so quiet), and we lose our

code and our careful as the car skids and sinks in this rule break, yes,


this electric. We destroy the farmer’s field, tires spinning, finding the mud

beneath the ice. Your thawed tongue is my concentration, a chance. I am


driving and you said safe and so I am tucking that word beneath my

cold seat, inside the fingers of my gloves, right there at the nape of—


this warm and tiny territory of just me. We will say yes and pass

each other direction. The car will fly. Is it snowing again? Too fast, I fear;


there is no slowing this engine. Would we speak of it? Finally. This truthing

as the tires clutch and ice, this spinning and almost dance. We miss


the fox by only a few inches. Watch her race, we are looking ahead. Already

sorrow in this, so look at me again. Now, we. I have loved this thought


of spring, this seed planted. But so to round the bend, plowing now,

and the groan rises up, so much ice to break. Silence is this dark, this


pretty. We think thank you and maybe and never and please. Here is

the road now, here is the rule. Our secret of two will not fit the straight


anymore. Hold our breath. This becomes a small, an ice sculpture left

behind in the field. Our wake and hint of fever. What you said is hush.



This one is silent, it holds only a pressing. And it is a memory

of fabric, too. In its way.


It is about perfectly fitted forms, and a deep and a quiet.


About restless, about why not.


It is about you and this question. About a language

that is also a periodic table of my elements.


I am always on about these cuneiforms

but there I pressed them, and was held, too.


Wooden floorboard, gentle foot. Here I am treading on this silence.


And this is a memory that becomes a story.




Michelle Bailat-Jones, St. Legier, Switzerland



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