it says—a twitch of clover
like a nerve in wind—
to another—a robin's ear cocked
for the sound of worms—
which is itself—not wholeness
but reticulation—
as another—sustained
by the bootstraps of its exchanges—
and itself—alive in saying
it's enough to love—
saying it—it says it—
it-is-enough-to-love.
-
Issue 63
-
Editor's Note
-
POETRY
-
FICTION
-
ESSAY
Issue > Poetry
Andrew Brenza
Andrew Brenza grew up in a small town in New York, not far from where TCR was founded. He earned his M.A. in creative writing from Temple University and currently teaches at Gloucester County College in New Jersey. Recent work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Word For/Word, Otoliths, Prick of the Spindle, Mad Hat Lit, and Shampoo.Gardens of Evening
gardens of evening
as one way of saying the vibrations
that move, that move through, everything,
even the saying of them,
especially the saying of them:
at field's edge, oak trees in wind.
in other words, the sun is a dying thing
from one perspective, the breath of life
from the same one; and so, we clothe
ourselves: tattered breaths of sunlight
over dry leaves, wearing sunlight,
in a garden of evening.
or is that another way of putting it,
like the way I started to dress like my father
in the months after his death
because it made me feel close to him?
as one way of saying the vibrations
that move, that move through, everything,
even the saying of them,
especially the saying of them:
at field's edge, oak trees in wind.
in other words, the sun is a dying thing
from one perspective, the breath of life
from the same one; and so, we clothe
ourselves: tattered breaths of sunlight
over dry leaves, wearing sunlight,
in a garden of evening.
or is that another way of putting it,
like the way I started to dress like my father
in the months after his death
because it made me feel close to him?
Poetry
John Wall Barger
An Old Man...
Poetry
Derek JG Williams
Lake on Cream Hill
Fiction
Dana Inez
Notes From A Risk Society