Presence 79

late autumn—
still dangling from the maple
its botanical name

— Steve Dolphy

fireflies
letting the glow
out of the jar

— Jeff Hoagland


from nowhere
an urge to join them —
churchgoers

— Susan King


rainy morning
rolling blackness
back and forth
up and down
the ink plate

— Randy Brooks

his old flight suits
in basement garment bags
we never asked
about the veteran
who wore them

— Richard L. Matta

Epiphany

My eyes are sky, cobalt and royal blue. Hair dye and acrylic skin paint make me invisible, allowing me to blend into the blues people look into daily. Parts of my soul float there, waiting for some sort of triage.

I have not lost it, though it free-falls somewhere between the two clichéd glasses, full or empty. It sways in vast unimagined and unexplored underwater mountains, rain forests or abandoned amusement parks, the potential celestial positions calculated by the square of every prime number multiplied by pi – starlight hides my limits, my uniqueness, my would-be godliness, my humanity.

Why have I thought, even once, that I am ready to die?

leaves fall
I am the guardian
of these small trees

— Alfred Booth