Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Poems by Rosemarie Crisafi   Car Window The dizzy flow, frame-by-frame blitz, trees blink, trucks grow and shrink. The sun becomes a traffic light.   Wildfire Afternoon chimes hang heavy in the eaves. Beyond the horizon, mirrors flash an electric offering. Voltage haunts the windshield of daddy's green Rambler. From the roof, shingles fall as Thor descends smoldering, swinging a magic hammer, a can of nails dragging down one shoulder. Wildfire jumps cloud-to-cloud about his head.   Mirror People come and go, grimacing, staring, landing outside the edges. The frame encloses skin without clothing it. The meeting point hides in silver nitrate where metallic gray turns lustrous and you are either in or out.   Next Poem
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