Poetry Issue 13

   Issue # 13 : January - March 2011

Elizabeth Willis


      Sometimes I think I see the air
      and all that was potential
      acquires the aura of its birth:

      the desert that became a bottle
      that broke into a crown
      that chose to seize its day

      Because I couldn’t stop
      for breath, my legs outran
      their shadow like a train

      By which I mean a cornfield
      long-legged, mechanical,
      the rhythm of a film

      in the middle distance
      shooting the horizon
      The earth is round