Read More: A brief Q&A with Harold Hoefle
The Flapping Tape
The tiny feet stick out and over the stroller’s lip,
reaching skyward, life-ward, wanting to touch
what’s there at 9 a.m. in Pointe Claire.
A street-name’s the same as my friend’s, he’s gone,
dress a word in love and it’s in you. A girl walks
a lawn on her hands, hair touching grass…
my sister’s texting, flames shot past her window at work,
now she’s with colleagues on the wrong side
of flapping yellow danger tape. Hours ago, I saw
the stars sprout silver, like children in the dark.
The Newscast
In the empty pool hall, the barista pets her phone
and at the lake a snake swims to shore, its head […]
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