by George Bowering

When we fall in love, we do not tumble
for perfect features, not for the ideal neck,
not Max Factor, guy got everything wrong.
We love a quirk, an irregular turn of some
foot or phrase.  Oh, that was just right,
we say, and there’s no way of backing it up,
we just hold it to us as our own, so it
doesn’t matter who else would know, as if
a dog or a heart skipped and no one else
noticed.  Wendy’s ankles were a little thick,
Frannie had a voice no one else liked,
the Earth, remember, is an oblate sphere;
when I was a forestry marker we abjured
imperfect specimens, and I wondered why.
When I fall in love, it will be forever,
we sang, and half-believed—we had spaces
to occupy in our own young brains.  Surely
the Garden of Eden was lovable because we
brought in the imperfect.  I’m telling you
I hope Eveline never did get that crooked
tooth fixed.

by David Jordan

Sunday morning at the Gray
dump, I am getting my religion,
as is half the town.

Plastic bags of trash are
into the trash compactor.
Tires in the tire bin, waiting
for reincarnation on the road.
Glass tumbling into the glass bin
ready for renewal.

People leave a stereo,
a baby swing, tools;
giving and receiving unto
a new life.

Dumping bottles, cans, and cardboard
from the yesterdays of the weeks before,
My life flashes before my eyes—into the bin,
recycled.

by David Jordan

in pink paisley
& golden flowers,
a Somalian woman
blooms
through the falling snow

by Carl Watson

I went into the past armed with channel locks
And a screw driver, but it was different
Than what I remembered: Machines
Had a will of their own, even then.
But the past is not a machine,
I vainly insisted to disbelieving friends,
Nor is it a painting to be changed
With fresh colors and a pallet knife.

We are always fixing what’s said and done,
Screwing lag bolts in the floor joists
After the hurricane has flattened the house,
Hiding the evidence after conviction,
Cutting up the credit cards as debt collectors
Knock vainly at the door,
Vacuuming the ash from the living room carpet
While the kitchen is on fire.

The city has been destroyed by grief,
But we are bickering over the budget
That might upgrade the subway tracks
For the new wider train cars
That will soon arrive from Holland or China—
To carry even more passengers,
To job interviews for positions
That no longer exist.

They say the hair rises on your forearms,
Seconds before your brain creates the image
Of the bear in the trees.  That’s a good thing.
Yet the species is doomed anyway
By a tipping point long passed.
But we’re still weighting the balance,

Building speed bumps to slow down the DUI
After the child has died.

Placing guards at the school house gates
Two days after the latest slaughter.