Fall 2012

Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 3


Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Reviews   

Philip Kobylarz



October at the beach and they are still
swimming. To parachute, one must first
practice. Ladies expose their backs to us,
their breasts to the sun. A haze envelopes
the city we don't want to see anyway.



She keeps with her countless souvenirs
of Lourdes, medallions, candles, coffee cups,
playing cards, stacks of old, empty shoe boxes.
Not knowing she will die one day and that
these are, waiting in the wings, coffins.



When the garbage trucks come, no praise
is offered, no one waves goodbye, nothing
is missed, the men are anonymous in their
soiled jumpsuits. We part with the things
we once loved. The noise is expected.



Wine for sale cheaper than bottled water.
Dogs driven wild by scents wait outside
the grocery store. Petted by an array
of hands, they relinquish themselves
to the leash of old leather, familiarity.



Hills are rending clouds again, there's
nothing better for the weather to do.
Arbousier blooms spiked red candies
of fruit, free for the taking. In the city,
the cemetery is empty with visitors.


© Philip Kobylarz


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Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Reviews   

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