Poetry

Billie JOHN WIENERS

He was like a god, stepped out of a dream along the boardwalk.

He looked at my girl, a dream herself & that was the end of them.

They disappeared into the sea at Revere Beach. I ain’t seen them since.

December, After Work

on a dead day in midwinter light fades

as in a theatre no sun

and by the thin trees

unaccountably gives way

as white to grey to grey blue

goes down

the verge of land

‘Winter With A Vengeance’

Winter with a vengeance knocks at my bones, the lake hardly remembers the sky.

People are falling in the streets splintering like icicles.

If you find anyone answering this description let me know. I need them

to carry the weight of my life. The gods are gone. Their flesh is what lives on

in my heart like a tomb a wound, a bomb.

JOHN LOGAN

we are turned to our houses in a globe

snow powder- ing around us

in a paperweight

the field’s edge the last root

cold figures

and at

fire rages in the snow

SAUL TOUSTER

and snow-blindness on the white hills where the sledders, oozing from the nose,

inscribe their black curses on the forthcoming issue -

Mothers melt their children into soups.

After a hard day’s death, father snow-plows his way home with gifts of frostbite

of Spring.

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