SPOTLIGHT: To Dance With Cassiopeia and Die by Steve Brisendine and Stephen Clay Dearborn

springs, eternal

the forecast calls for

plummeting skies, hard reigns with


of tumult and thundering

rhetoric; I say green points

of new buds provide

sufficient defense against

infirm firmament,

and cardinal-chants suffice

to keep clouds in their courses


Memorial Day, Antioch Park

mallard ducklings
huddle on a wet stone;
I counted nine just thirteen days


Gone to Kansas City

with the top down,
I seek new streets in this
land of red brick and white-boy blues.
Show me.


The Tuesday After

I have
folded your memory
like a flag

and put
it in the drawer. See you
in a year.



Still air

full of early

summer, more than a month

too soon; someone go and find where

spring went.


whatever it wants to come back:

garlands, pole-festivals,

hymns in honor

of rain.


Lost Time

Birdsongs …
have I written
all night? From the bedroom,
no more calls, no more tears, only



Bright bolts
crackle and arc

from inner thunderheads;
illumined by the flash of “if,”
we dance
and pray
for paper, canvas, strings to blaze,
for breath to spread the sparks,
for night to burn


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