Volume 10, July 2014

John JamesView Contributor’s Note

Snow Logic

Dead of winter
half the self remains

circulating like phosphor
in the blind distance.

Wind runs over
the black acres,

frost studded
with the upshoot of saplings.

Streets mowed-over
like a desert dream, receding.

Constellations over the plain
are wound syntax.

Tree limbs are shot veins.
Eyes lost

before the clarity of dawn
scan the prairie

for knowing
for air.