Jul/Aug 2018 Poetry


by Charles Kell

Image courtesy of British Library Photostream

Image courtesy of British Library Photostream


with empty beer bottles up-
side down on each pole.

A thin whip cracks through the holes.
Kindling stick faces out

toward a tree topped cloud.
There used to be an arbor.

We used to wander with little
clothes between stringy leaves.

Waiting for the flashlight. Moth
hit against a half open window.

We used to rub bare feet in grass.
Before the banished shadow,

before guilt sutured our lips shut.
You were the tentative talker,

I was the head-down listener.
The grass is brown needles.

Shale sticks in my throat.
There is sleep for everyone except us.

The sky is pocked with holes.


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