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 May Issue


Fever Tree


 Each leaf a palm

             a psalm to share

 Each pair of lips

             are ships that flee

Each sea sets course

             a force of tongues

Each plunge toward calm

             a balm with salt

Each vaulted stem

             Je t’aime with curls

Each pearl-dropped line

             a sign, a thief