The sun shines
people forget


Paul Klee, Cold City, 1921

In the Era of the Sentence Fragment
-- by Dan Albergotti

Lines of incompletion. All those words
that can be gathered. But not enough
for shoring. Not against ruins. Fragments
of sentences, of dreams, of the boys’ school
in Hiroshima. Looking for raw material
in the dust. Finding nothing. Having nothing
inside. Unable to do the police in different voices.
No more voices. No more makers, better
or worse. Only weak echoes. And irony.
And the dim blue sunrise of the television screen.
And the wish finally to die, like Shelley,
mid-sentence. Writing the triumph of life.


Working Stiff Cylinder
-- Denise Duhamel

I went to the main office to get the official code.
A secretary said to get the code I needed a company I.D.

I went to the personnel office to get a company I.D.
A secretary said to get an I.D. I needed to fill out Form F.

I went to pick up Form F in the basement.
A secretary said, “To get Form F, you need Form P signed by the boss.”

I went to the boss’s office on the top floor.
The boss said that I’d have to have Form P notarized before she could sign it.

I went to the notary in the company’s lobby.
He said, “I can’t notarize Form P until you get all the Xerox copies.”

The Xerox machine was broken, so I called the 800 number.
A technician refused to come, because I didn’t know the official code.


The Hotel Devotion
-- by Sandra Beasley

In the Hotel Devotion
there is no running water,

no power, no stairs,
no bed. There is only

the woman who holds
a river in her mouth,

fireflies in her hands,
the woman who bends

for you, opens for you.
There is only this book,

this pen in your hand,
your name the only name.