c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by Doug Bolling

So much left unsaid,
autumn wind always
taking away.

How is it thoughts slip
through carapace of words
as though to fly,

as though the pods and husks
might wither freeing up
the hidden voice.

To walk here is to listen
for the unsayable,

The gleam through
the woods like
an enchanter
some distant mystery
almost near.

BONES by Lynn Crounse

BONES by Lynn Crounse

by Cassondra Windwalker

The words bleed through,
Even as the ink fades —
One story finds its echo
In the next, and I try to retreat
From character to reader,
As it seems I am not allowed
To advance to writer and tell
The story I had thought to breathe:
At the very least, if this villain
Finds no rest, I could reduce
The conflict to a sub-plot,
Rewrite your part and let you hold
As your own all that now
Threatens to escape you: keep close,
Or turn away, the text remains
As it was writ — we were,
We are, we will be, and while
I may hide and choose to only
Read of our griefs, this secret joy
Is woven in the threads
Of every page, and my fingers
Cannot fail to find its coded path.

END OF THE WORLD by Baxter Jackson

END OF THE WORLD Yellowstone National Park by Baxter Jackson

by Simon Perchik

Struck from behind and the Earth
as if you could get away with it
—in the dark this yard

half slush, half mist, thickening
not yet another moon
though the dirt you skimmed off

has lost its hold, lifts
and from the shadow it drained
to make a second sky

only you don't have an alibi
—you were there —on that night
—beside this stone —plead loneliness

throw both hands into the air
—you've got the chance, now! dig
faster, this stone, another

the way each mountain range
can recognize itself in the marsh
in the smoking grass and river beds

—plead emptiness, say
you were building a dam, say
guilty! and fold your arms.

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