Issue 7 | Summer 2010


I wanted a ring with a carved Indian
face, or a horse hair instrument
that droned, but the Gulf was beaten
with oil in its gills and feathers,
a desperate mix, viscous and black.
Give me the horse skull,
keep the credit card.
Give me a great blue adventure,
I’ll just stand and stare.
The pelican grounded,
the sand like cement,
the open wound of our planet
cauterized just enough,
the shallow drill heading for bone.

Filed under: Poetry