by Robert Farnsworth

In Paris that morning a mendicant
had unfurled a three by five rug

on the sidewalk beside a planter,
and sat there before it, upon his

leather valise as on a hassock.
A bowl for alms, a book to read,

a shallow tin of water for the calm,
obedient spaniel.  Habitual —

I wondered — calculated, this
orderly encampment?  It was not

until later that bright afternoon,
returning from my aimless walk,

that some principles of civilization
clarified.  The rug was empty,

the valise still there, the alms bowl
partly full of coins and notes,

but the dog and master were gone,
not far perhaps, but nowhere

I could see — apparently to take
a stroll, a leak, to fetch a bite.

Who knew?  Crowds strode past
that rug, that small inviolable zone.

Keystone of an imperceptible arch.

by Robert Farnsworth

A year ago the finch’s undulant yellow flight
would not have so pierced me.  It would have

seemed too soon to think about death, even
shyly, sincerely.  Slate blue seconds of early June

shuffle and glitter toward me from the sensible
limit the eye must seek, and toward which this

petal-strewn cape swings out.  I belong to this
spatial understanding, as the beetle on that railing,

its brass back bulged like the head of a screw,
belongs to its feelers’ divinations.  Distance

answers something permanent in me.  Our children
stroll across the meadow, back from reading

the stained shale pages of the cliffs.  Polished
paths of morning calm meander out to sea.

by Lucia Owen

This Memorial Day
it is sweet and fitting that schoolchildren
paint their palms red, white and blue,
stamp their hands on white construction paper,
pencil in block letters on the back
their innocent thanks to the ones who returned,
and prop their tributes
against the napkin holders
on each table in the dining room.

The man in the motorized wheelchair
packing an oxygen tank
maneuvers himself so he can reach one.
He turns the paper over and over again
and replaces it, words up.

He pivots his chair away.
His cheek spasms and his eyes
ask questions too big for schoolchildren
and accuse the room.

He has never heard of the young, brilliant,
man-slaying Achilles who chose not to come home
in exchange for fame.

He never knew there was such a choice
when he went away and now in this home
of no choice he lives alone in
wrath.

by Kathleen Ellis

When the water rose up
there was wind, darkness, rage.

When the lightning struck
the animals became restless,
primitive again.

When the beginning was the end
I cheered up for a few days, laughter
spreading among the tortoises.

When the day arrived to disembark
I became one of them, unsteady,
as if the earth were moving.

In the ark, you were holding back
and practicing your land legs.

I mistook this as my own story,
The disturbance that water makes
within water.

That collapsing levee, breaking
loose history, inundating
who we are, the water that we are.