Current Issue               Submissions               Round Table





The red fire god sits on the horizon
blinding us with his love
and we ignore him
squinting in the glare
while he gobbles distant trees,
takes a bite from their hill
and sinks into a wrestler's squat.

In a blink he is gone
the ruddy glow of his last breath
a final benison
as unholy thoughts stir,
scratch themselves and mutter,
then judge the sky safely transmuted
toward the indigo of indifference.

      — Lucile Blanchard