poem
Volume 32, Number 1

Clark Kent

Round horn-rims and recessive pose
are just as much disguises
as the bright-caped spandex suit,
the blinding speed, the
public feats of strength.

Lone now, lone always:
dropped from a far exploded planet
pretending to be human
sentenced to spins
through random phone booths

intergalactic migrant
ever on guard
all-American
without green card
peering in.


—Michael H. Levin