Issue 1.5

Shovel Test Pits in Winter My shovel beats the earth at 9 a.m. thermometer still reads 32 degrees tuft falls away into muddy flowers ribbon of earth quakes before me layer siltier, less frost I shed outer layer beat down the dust nostrils flaring with sienna crisp earth turned thorns buried in palms price for Munsell, for stratigraphic wall, for frost and loam for the brown on calluses and brow for sanctuary worship sandy tongue grit and love and time I strip myself as I journey down, trowel hits water suddenly, I am winter dowsing rod.

Aldrich Ames Just write it in chalk on a blue mailbox Spell out your sins, name your price then name some names, and if you're drunk enough while you’re at it tell your wife about the girls in Mexico. Don’t put it off, Rick. Don’t let your boss know, Rick. Don’t leave the files on the subway, Rick. You say we’re making a huge mistake and we have the wrong man, but your new wife’s on the phone to Colombia; we’re listening to her talk. Dan’s on the headset, Diane’s jotting it word-for-word, Jeanne’s rifled around your trash and Sandy’s started the paperwork and my lord, Rick, there’s a lot. It’ll be adios to the Jag; the house’ll get sold. Play ball and maybe life sans parole in a Terre Haute or a Florence High. Have a drink, Rick, and let us know. Have a drink and let us know.

Kim and Ikea Put Together Her Book Take down that cracked leather volume, dusty and timeless, unwrap with box cutter. Inventory the pieces. Each word must enjamb correctly, each screw must hold. Dactyls unfurl like reminiscing scrolls. Place the verbs and nouns together with each screw and washer labeled C and E. Do not forget to inspect edges—the pages must line up, or it will be unstable. No one wants a labyrinth of metaphor to topple onto their toe. Now, gather the wooden pegs and the articles. Gently use a mallet to hammer pesky words out of lexicon. Keep strange 19th-century euphemisms— they must be hammered in, rusty nail or no. Rotate. Observe each edge— press into water-damaged antiquity. Tales and Allen wrenches crack tongue, blood trickles as edge slices thumb, should’ve sanded that particular participle down more. Plyers and bloodshed are offerings to literature. The gods like Post-it notes and pens, but prefer MacGyver-like instincts—if a book needs a new cover, then damn it, use a paperclip and some floss. Gum is for amateurs. Make love to dust and binding. (The directions say not to take this direction “literally.”) I do not keep the cover I tore in gleeful abandon, only torn manuscripts to mend—word quilts to cover my reverie. I place the Allen wrench in cramped tool drawer. I reason the book will not fall apart. There are two extra screws, one washer, a nail. Those pieces must have been extra, like the articles I took the mallet to.

Road Bumps My poem tends to pidgin style, in English lingo, but curtailed, for as compacting wordy terms, it's apt for gaps. When definite, assume the reader telegrams, inserts the tetragrammaton, the word unspoken, but known there, a gap in line, but owned by them, or to be frank, the article. As in France, wanting bread, I said *une pain s’il vous plait*; she made plain, with quiver lip, this tourist pain, *__un__ pain*, as if a crime, but knew, and took my cash, baguette in hand. So play along and act your part, as hear the poser, apron tied, and give reply, whatever tide. Why should the stage work entertain, without response from that fourth wall— for readership, a talking point, who adds what’s missing, as reviews. Some haiku with a broader brush, potholes meant to slow your drive, road bumps to frustrate the rush, and workmen from a stripy tent who dig, survey, stop work for tea— the choice is yours, no foreman here— keep digging, drinking, or clock off.

Hither to Silk-Washing Stream “What are we to this Amsterdam? Not your Leica photos, or Instagram. You know the museums by heart, you have gone off to parties in Overtoom,” I asked while leaning on your shoulder, sailing downtown along Prinsengracht. We expended our youth, our 21, from one canal to another, splitting ripples, drifting between continents, spilling life into secret missions, in one long exile. “Everywhere, counting the roads not taken is difficult, however far we escaped home. Amsterdam is just another city, it has blue arteries; wherever we can sail, wherever is home.” Yes, parting with motherland was a dangerous affair: remember our farewell? Last July when that putrid-green heat stroked your heart, we soared above the stratosphere, back to your Yangtze town. Sailing under Jiajing-era caverns, through dense lotus blooms, drowning in its calcium scent. En route to our elementary school startled herons flew, south and north.