Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Poems by Duane Ackerson   Indicators It's a slow day. The stone skimmed across the lake leaves circles that won't go away. It's rained a little earlier, and the puddles have kept their crowns. The sun stops overhead and pauses long enough that you can feel your shadow nibbling at your feet.     Daylight Savings Time Do the clocks hoard all this lost sunshine, release it in bursts six months later? Are these time banks the banks of a river or just something wiping a metallic taste from its mouth? Ask the hourglasses lapping at the deserts where time is stored.     Next Poem
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