Menu

 
   
..:: CONTENTS ::..

   Volume IX, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
    Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
    Volume V, Issue II
    Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I
   Volume VIII, Issue II

   Volume IX, Issue I

 
Poetry


The Good Old Days
John McKernan

 

The antique dealer Ivan lets the rust stay but he removes mildew

He uses flypaper to attract beautiful moths

He broke a girl's wrist for trying to steal a glass sundial

When he ripped it from her it broke in many pieces

He made a microscope of the pieces

I use the microscope to read poetry in translation

Hard to see things clearly any more

Since every poem now resembles that photo of me as an infant
              crawling across a bearskin rug

 

 

//   Advance   //