Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Howie Good Night Must Fall Stranded here now forever, the pale, leafless trees shake with justifiable paranoia. I too wonder what calamity comes next and how she can dismiss it from her mind and wash her stockings in the sink. Day by day, the cemetery moves closer to the black road, headlights closer and closer to my back bumper till they fill the mirror with casually muttered threats, and as it must, the sky, though patched in places, presses down, aslant and narrowly obsessed. Next Poem
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