the rotary dial

best new poetry in form

Weeds are not supposed to grow
but by degrees
some achieve a flower, although
no one sees.

From the March issue


Street View


One more pedestrian day
Steps up. It hands me these:
An east-west avenue
Alléed with leafing trees
That traffic with the light.
Such mornings, I confess
I’ve stalled at the center line
Struck motionless
Watching sunrise parade,
All brass, out of the east.
Of life’s small celebrations
Even these least
Need trotting out sometimes
With somersaults and handsprings
Across the sullen blacktop
That buries things.