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Editor back-issues, poetry

Cries in the Greenhouse

Amid a low rumble of distant thunder
and the howling of wolves
under skies
as slate diagonal,
sandwiched in shades
and edged with gunmetal gray;
we go down to Willow Palm
where lives Leviathan
in irregularly joined inkblot swamps
of colloidal silver,
ringed by jade fountains
spewing forth bold, gleaming foams of gold.

Close
in a pristine meadow,
an Avatar
with marbled arms outstretched
as though to receive,
clothed in a fine linen shirt…undone
and
a crystalline lightning rod
in one sculpted hand;
sleeps
in an Emerald Python’s cool, iridescent coils.

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