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


by Sasha Geffen
When we are gone
our shadows will walk

these trails. We squeeze
air out of the soil

with sneakers
and hear it whisper

small wishes. Our backs
snap twigs against

the earth. We take the purple
pre-dawn in

and out of our lungs
while cicadas coat

the trees, their bodies
a quivering bark. The soil

soaks us in cool
and in dark. There are coils

of notes around the branches--there!
Birds swoop into the stars

and sew shut the night. The sun
splits the forest, finds its end

in our arms. The air
spreads dew

on our lips that tastes
as though it were poured

from ancient clay.
Our mouths become

the amplifiers
of every inaudible sound.

When our throats rot our songs
will be carried away

on the backs
of ants.

Aunty by Brenton Rossow

Aunty by Brenton Rossow

by Simon Perchik
Itís never dry -another gust
though this elevator is carried
the way you count backward

for hours and the door flies open
lets in a sea half hillside
half rising through the floor

-you walk in to sleep, begin
with the sound sand makes
when scattered for footprints

still following the silence
between 10, then 0, pressed
against your face -tides

are used to this, start out
to forgive, then lay down
as emptiness and a home.

by J. Zimmerman
My parents brought me
a patch
of the sky
where one star,
a single dolphin
of sapphire
and silver,
swam in a river
with wind and time

When I fall asleep
or climb
the stairway of my life
I arrive
where the sky
eats strawberries
and the sea.

My friends and I
arrange our patches
a huge cloak
of fireflies
and whirlwinds,
a cape that flies
singing around us
full of eagles
and the gifts
of our parents.

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