Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Poems by Erin Noteboom   the potato, like us opens its eyes in darkness   it has nothing but its own desire and the earth's rough umbilical   it fumbles it spreads its fingers   eventually there will be white flowers and after that a spade a turning   Prophecy A man has a dream he will die away from home. Well-read, he knows better than to bolt the doors.   But every morning his wife waits for the engine to turn without explosion.   Sometimes in the watered light she stops and listens.   Next Poem
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