By Barry Wallenstein He says – to whom I won’t tell – it’s a tick past midnight, not enough time now to read, not enough hours ever in a day. He speaks that way and stumbles into an iamb, curses in spondees – unable to finish a verse or worse, he falls silent Blocked in
by Barry Wallenstein A mark on the calendar – the first anniversary of when his heart failed to allow him another day. His body conspired against his self for a too long lingering while, and then the muscles failed. “Time to leave,” he would say, drawing on a cigarette – “don’t get me wrong” –
by Barry Wallenstein Passing by a mirror, he pays no attention and gazes in the other direction. He pushes forward without looking back. It’s enough to know it’s there he thinks; placing one small thought behind another, he banishes envy, spite, rancor and courts a breeze on its way across a field of heather. Well