by Tony Kitt

A tree asked a man: Why is your winged body
butterflied on the ground?
Who do you slave for
when the time is half past piff le?

You’ve been unearthing lifespans
of wildlife action, and your skin
excretes terrible secrets.
The tree said, Why?

Why are you searching
for value sparkles
where only newtons of nowt
have been hidden?

by Tony Kitt

A man goes to the post office
to consign his flattened heart
to a voice in the receiver.

There’s a queue inside; blood is dripping
from manila envelopes. An open–jaw container
stands ready for mutuality.

The man listens to a mirror.
The man lip–reads
his imperfection:

You are a quadrangle among circles.
You no longer exist
in your 360–degree entirety.

It’s my turn now.
Which part of me should I send —
and to whom?

The postman whispers in my ear:
You’re a writer.
Help me. Writer me.

by Tony Kitt

There was a man who went into the newspaper rain
and listened hard. Nothing but splinters
of a zealous xylophone. He slept
under the whiskey–coloured sky. He ended up
around the corner of the phone signal.
A life later
a sprout answered the call.

There was another man who wandered outside
his blueprint. He approached the custodians
of open spaces, with television eyes
and fig–leaf bodies. They said, Every person
is a projection; books travel from mind to mind.
Show us your trust transplant.
His thoughts expanded as they were heated.

There was a woman with a black and white face
pausing among blots of colour. She tried
to tell time on a handless clock. She bought
a left–over ticket to travel
in the right direction. At the crush hour,
she boarded a train bound for
Nowheretobefound.

When you walk with a voice, you
hear stories.

by James H. Schneider

Have you noticed how your voice sounds
in an empty house? Not in that pregnant
absence when your wife has gone to the store
and the kids are at school. I mean an emptiness
not just of family, but of furniture, clothes, books,
plates, an emptiness even of attic and basement.
An emptiness made more complete by a single screw
that, when you open a drawer, rumbles in a small arc.
Then, as you murmur while you wander a last time
through the hallways, you may hear a faint echo
of reading to a child at bedtime, soothing another,
saying ‘good boy’ to the dog, whispering words
of love to your wife. But that’s not all this emptiness
has to offer. Go ahead, scream or shout. No one
can hear. Whatever you utter, it means the same thing.