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Poetry
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| LOCUS | |
| By wiredwriter | ||||||
| 18 April 2005 | ||||||
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When in fact you are lost. I walk the edge of a river, outskirts of a new town. I am a stranger here, moved in last week. The neighbors ignore me. Sometimes I want to rattle pots and pans on the back deck of the house, see if anyone notices. Probably wouldn't. They would all just turn their heads and look at each other as if the calamity were no calamity at all, only a brief interlude of minimal cacophony. But yet things are beginning
Jeffrey S. Callico
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