by Russell Evatt

When I speak of death, I do not mean the one
in the ground there, to whose funeral I wore

a red shirt because I chose not to believe
in the hint of rain, the beauty found in suffering.

I will not tell you the world is full of gods
and the promise of loss.  I will not tell you

this is where the dead become saints.  They
are the regret of a former lover over a promise

long ago broken: over something as simple
as an article of clothing that hadn’t been missed

until now, and is wanted, if only for a chance
to ask how things have been.

by Russell Evatt

I had a notion
today

that it feels
terrific

to die.  Finally,
that’s over.

From the park bench
I heard

the refined static
of 1-74:

felt the breeze
urging me

to put my coat
back on

for it’s not
yet Spring.

by Gabor G. Gyukics

during tail-wind
the headwind
pushes you back
only the motion remains

your body is searching for the gap
your eyes are already behind the wind

the weight of Nothing in your head
is a pawn pressed in the corner
you won’t meet him ever
but what’s waiting

by Gabor G. Gyukics

the mirror shows a different picture every day

the flame shooting out from the fireplace
is counting the new arrivals
the flame of the candle says good bye
to those who are going away

anticipation gathers inside
a butterfly with spread wings
lies on the hot rocky floor

paint rolls off of the wall
the house rises up
the fresh faced wind
flies it
to another place