Vanguard Editions

Featured poem:

for those who died in Paris attacks 

Streetlights on rue de Charonne 

The bleakest line is a bow of breath, no music.
Rising I witness

this foreign light. So late,
and seeing the night
lay down its moon blade for complacency.

Even she
comes into the world from the dark

coming from a different
light, a trench high and smiling –
Who are they

to flock in iron. Holding the line of breath
as if a direct
channel through to God.

A child’s cry has more art. I am stunned
by their succession of blades
cutting back the body of fields.

They contain a message, sharpening
in the process
of touch. Naked beneath, single roads

and deeper curves that might be
the body of a woman –
But there is no

woman in this dead bright, no man.
Only the static breeding

of air, the monotonic
prayer clouds that hang

their heads, mutter electric.
They have lit the path

to the underworld.
Soon they will compress in stone.

Deepen the stars
to a mute thing we only
refer to without history.

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