The Garden or the Flower

By Luis Camacho
Photo by Luis Camacho.

Bewilderment begot Death’s remorse

a flower, wilting in the cup of hands

flesh made against the source

as the prince, in all his

benevolence sang,

I would give for you

a garden, love, if only you should bear

those tears with silent devotion.

She looked on its gold, its promised names

of flowers not yet birthed

but as she wept she turned away

to reside among the fields:

for in that gloried cage she knew

no place for petals time had stolen

no roots in which its name might roost.

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Passing Fancies

By Cam Adams
Image by Cam Adams

Today

today

is always the day we lose our way.

 

Constricted verbosity

like moss on a rolling stone

gathers

syntax

articulation

on which to fly.

 

Twerked tics

swarm characters.

 

Beyond the light

blind men hack

at their roots

focused on the shorter road

not the forest sound.

Color: the Hell you Say?

The sight of memory is gray like a morning fog;

it whistles and it rustles where it shuffles by

toward that snowy countenance we call a tunnel.

 

The sight of memory is her tanned thighs parting

to the man with scarlet hands and Rudolf nose,

there in the yellowing deck of fallen leaves

we, in grassy youth, called our home.

 

Poor woman, her own sight bitten by the pallid dog—Time.

 

I can still remember the tar behind the scream

when the ocean froth carried me away.

Rain, rain, orange in our dusk departure

from sensory deprivations rainbows left behind.

 

The sight of memory is royal in the velvet swell

of new springs, rooted in fresh earth our toes dug up

when heart and mind planted rouged foundations

against the gnawing whisper: Sienna’s a bastard color, anyway.