by Paul Otremba
paper, 74 pages, $15.95
I saw it once, the place full of steam,
from behind the taxi’s streaked window.
But in the park we were vulnerable,
exposed for the sky’s opening. Running,
a small space opened near the small
of her back. Some nights I would
wake there. Then in dreams, her tongue
reflected with scales like the sides
of a glass fish. And there were other—
more important—rains. Still, what leaves?
What conservation of mettle? More dreams
proceeded, but the order came out wrong.
It was a vastness, the glass against the sky,
another couple up for anything,
or so it seemed from the railing.
On the sides of the glass fish swam
scrutiny, an abundance of fern.
And still others came by and said, Oh,
not that red, that red.