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roller blades.jpg
Roller Blades by Jeff Abshear

Keith Moul



Dress Warmly



33 degrees Fahrenheit over night.

Water and I, both inclined toward ice:

fine, that’s the law;

no reason for dispute;

dress warmly and tell the truth.


I would go a long way for truth,

(braving ice but a small price),

considering its beauty too, so rare,

its way largely unknown.


Please be with me; dress warmly.

Your garden is dormant.

Let’s sing the summer coming in,

about a walking stick, sing cuckoo!


We go coldly up the road.

Any observer would note our progress,

our cause being just; our pursuit cold,







Everywhere Extolled


He went among branch debris,

kept close lessons learned

so often mending the fence:


about danger to her, distracted;


about deer after succulent leaves

and blooms; about fractures


weakening whole trees, that,

shrieking, make gapes in the fence.


He had known six seasons of stiff winds.


He knew, without doubt,

of his right to silence:


among his neighbors

it was everywhere extolled.



Keith Moul's poems have been published widely for almost 45 years. Recently two chapbooks have been released: The Grammar of Mind (2010) from Blue & Yellow Dog Press and Beautiful Agitation (2012) from Rec Ochre Press. In 2010, a poem written to accompany one of Keith's photos was a Pushcart nominee.

Miriam Sagan



Living in the Triassic



I walked crosstown in the rain

To the Museum of Natural History

In search of what I'd seen in the desert

The polychrome Chinle layer, which here

Lies under Newark, New Jersey.

The past can't help but break through

In outcroppings, choke full

Of fossils, small intent dinosaurs,

And their preserved footprints, a placental

Cache of eggs. This was not

The Petrified Forest

Where the great mineralized trunks

Of former trees

Calved out of the earth itself

But rather the personal past

A museum full of displaced objects:

     a jar of buttons

     a suitcase full of leaves

     onion rings

     the hidden violets of childhood

     the Temple of Jerusalem in a bottle

All these maps are the maps of time.

The four year old child

Is afraid of the snow

And weeps

If he has to go out in it.

Is memory fixed, like trauma,

Or can it shift?

Gone forever

The chestnut tree

My grandfather planted,

The red Chinese mirror

With its silvered backing


To an unreadable calligraphy.

But you can imagine

What it says...

The little replica

Of the Parthenon


In my suitcase,

Trying to preserve

What cannot be preserved

Confusing souvenir

With memory.

Across Broadway

Strobe lights lit the dance studio

Until the photographer


One draped figure

In the corner

And snapped the frame.

I saw the dustless mirror

Reflect Newark, New Jersey

I did not dust it

But it was perfectly clear

Reflecting cattails, barbed wire, prison, and airport.

In all versions, my childhood disappears

The developer cuts down

The copper beeches

I still fly over in my dreams.



Miriam Sagan is the author of twenty-five books, including the poetry collection, Map of the Lost (University of New Mexico Press.) She founded and directs the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College. Her blog is Miriam's Well ( in 2010, she won the Santa Fe Mayor's award for Excellence in the Arts.

Michael Jones



Tour of Modern Roads in the Kingdom of Genus



You could say that the red Go Back sign

deregulates traffic.  Feet, fins, torsos—

every conceivable model swirls

through these alleged intersections.


We would be poorer, of course, without the scales

and slimes and pelts, all hurrying as if they’ve come

too late from their alleys, which coil like the guts

we used for augury back in the days


when all Go Back signs halted even the clueless

short of the midden. How freely they reveal

their intentions now, like wines diffusing

their bouquets, or pheromones their directives!


Those helices guiding your eyes to the right – see

where you’re looking? – also serve to clarify odors

for the scent-dependent, the more determinedly

snouted and muzzled, some of them inflamed


by the occasional corpseflower. Beetles

pave this last stretch – that’s right, the red is not

a carpet. Now, three turns around the Stone

from the Sky, whose veins form the glyph for Here.






Seeing Myself As I See Others While Driving



As a piece of the traffic I’m in,

a make, model and year,

a cause of exhaust,

a rack of mirrors.


Or as a figure in a Chinese landscape,

pinch of ink on a pine-rich mountain.



Michael Jones teaches at Oakland High School in Oakland, CA. His work has appeared in Beloit Poetry Journal, DMQ Review, and Rhino.


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