Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Poems by Tom Sheehan   Final Acts In the woodpile I can't see, a snake settles where my hand left a moment's warmth on a slanting of birch plunging past white, its coils wound tight as bark. Field mouse, beneath owl's infrared eyes and sudden wing thump, gathers into last minutes.   A Wing Flap Hear in the backyard a wing flap, I swear a dove braking, a jay at attack only he knows how, a moth at window test, the light becomes him. What cricket din absorbs a neighborhood, a mountain’s last look at sunset, your endless laughter at rest. A backpack wears remnant leaf, piece of shade, an ivy's name.   Next Poem
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