poem
Volume 37, Number 4

Lone Tent Pitched At The Edge Of A Freeway Embankment, Oakland 

The way it talons the brink
makes me want to paw top-speed
at the dashboard buttons and dive
into the needle tears a hole—

No. I let out the breath I
didn’t know I’d been holding
and ease into the slower lane,
lessen the dangers I pose.


—Michael Jones