by Michael Bove

Was what the ghost of Emily Dickinson provided
to the men who tried to reach her through a Ouija board
sometime in the early sixties.
One a scholar, one a poet, they were convinced
there was new work, undiscovered: scraps on envelopes
she mailed to friends from her hallowed room in Amherst.
They scribbled the words in lamplight
some dark December evening, struggling to keep up
with the planchette, jerking from line to line
in a frantic dash. At the end of the night they wrote
their letters, imploring responses, and left them
with the mail in the morning. Within weeks they saw
the letters again, stamped with spectral ink:
return to sender.

by Roger Hickin

among philosophers
I love the turbulent
Berdyaev

with his aristocratic
habits & alarming
facial tic

a thinker who conceded
the rational world no primary
reality

craved only the eternal
was afraid
of drafts

& refused
to put a glass down
on a dirty floor

by Roger Hickin

i.

don’t
say too
much

like Monk’s notes
words need
silence

stop
breathe
dig

check out
spaces
in between

ii.

honks
peeps
pops

Lacy
pares it down

all those tunes
with one word
names

blinks
chirps

capers
quirks

next to
nothing’s

enough
to swing with

by Roger Hickin

i.   (after Spiridon Drozhzhin)

a leaf blown

from its native branch
you drift with no road

of your own

ii.    Valdicastello

in torrents of rain

knock in vain
on the door of a friend

of a friend

iii.    Rapallo

at the marketplace

in Rapallo — baccalà al forno
and an old man’s company

at a marble table

iv.    Parco della Pace, Sant’ Anna di Stazzema

climb the ruined village

pass through the gate
of the Park of Peace —

she’s on her knees,
he’s in her mouth —

on the monumento ossario a stone mother
hugs her dead child —

a four hour spree for retreating SS
massacre then lunch and songs

high among the chestnuts of the Apuane
Anna . . .    Evelina . . .

Innocenzo . . .