The Reckless Remainder

Poetry. Fiction. "Today the sky's not making sense. Small dramas unfold in the eaves, woodpeckers fracking the hemlock to fracture. You're standing under controlled bamboo controlling your temper. A little roundabout for the parade, a little whiskey and the night's not over. Trees twine the road to the evening train. Twin coyotes race between two whistles. To cross now would kill me. You're on the other side, summoning red intentions. Even cracked asphalt knows when to stop. More Description

Poetry. Fiction. "Today the sky's not making sense. Small dramas unfold in the eaves, woodpeckers fracking the hemlock to fracture. You're standing under controlled bamboo controlling your temper. A little roundabout for the parade, a little whiskey and the night's not over. Trees twine the road to the evening train. Twin coyotes race between two whistles. To cross now would kill me. You're on the other side, summoning red intentions. Even cracked asphalt knows when to stop.



The yard dreams of water, and I sink to my neck trying to leave. You eye me from the other side: street, world, story. You read the ending and rearrange the words. Grass moves in waves that break against the house. Trees puff like smokestacks. Escape is an underwater tunnel I find by inching deeper. Big breath, and I'm swimming in all directions but out."--Carol Guess & Kelly Magee