Mark Fry has had poems published in ZYZZYVA, The King’s English, The Oregonian, and forthcoming in The MacGuffin. Mark lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.
Low clouds open to the wing
harmonics of a solitary wasp, flick
flying. I sit thinking in a dry cave
mouth, veiled by waterfall mist.
As a child, I balled fists
to hide my fingers from angry
couplings. Philadelphia’s filthy
health scrolled by scratched
windows, carving Penn’s woods.
The ills no longer cough up
the pipes or run out through rips,
though I am lonelier for loving
the moving light in streams.
Shovels lean by dawn’s digging hole.
Light will soon stripe their handles.
Sweet prospect: this day
will come color-whipped.
