Into the Teeth of the Wind
Selected poem from Volume III, Issue 4
Chair is the Word
“Here,” says Katie. “Don’t Look.”
He looks: she searches a lobby directory.
He closes his eyes
her palm resting aginst the bridge of his nose.
Moving up or down, then
doors open
into an apartment
with white carpets, plush white furniture
from which arises several fat, fluffy white cats
that follow him and Katie into the next room
cooler and blue:
A lighted lamp
a dark armchair
elbows on the rests.
Katie leads him by the hand
to the chair.