I took three stones from there:
one from the water
one from the sun
and a small one
to grow.
The puzzle of the sun’s longing for
the sea
The marvel: her love fills the sky overflows the rim till the
sea is one
with the sky
By L. S. KLATT
I leave the house unlocked & walk to the garage jacked to
The White Stripes. My mouth is a guitar; snow is in the sound hole.
Spring. I think it’s spring. The automatic door leaps
in its tracks & is music again. I record on my phone a soundwave
as the GTO convertible wheels out of its tomb, the driveway
chartreuse with maple wings. Tell White I’ll cut some garlic
in his mother’s garden; I’ll wear a rhinestone button-down
studded with garnets. Finger the fretboard with licks
& withdrawals. And toe-tap the pedal
if I don’t screw up again. If I don’t give up listening
to the leafing of lettuces. Won’t be long
before I could care less.
L. S. KLATT’s poems have appeared widely: The New Yorker, Harvard Review, The Believer, Image, VOLT, The Southern Review, and Pleiades. He is the author of five collections, including Cloud of Ink, winner of the Iowa Poetry Prize, and most recently Saint with a Peacock Voice.
By DANIEL TOBIN
Like a dog truant among the tended plots
it turns back toward us a considerate eye
as though sensing the disquiet of our being
lost here among all the unfamiliar graves
that would be landmarks proving the right way
if this were the way we’d believed it to be.
Empty streets, even our taxi
is missing, but the train station
is crowded. I comb
my hair, looking at
the reflection
in the ticket window.
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