Here in the bone cave
Where nothing stirs but blind crickets
Moving, sifting darkness
Knowing nothing but random scurry.
Here deep in the bone cave
Tenderly curved into green memory
Touching cool opaque walls
Remembering water dreaming.
Here within the fragile chanter
Deep as the secret stream
That seeks in the darkness.
Here moves the burning coils
Of frantic memory and thrust
Seeking like the blind cave-cricket
Maureen Fogard's poem in this issue is from an unpublished collection titled Defining the Silence.
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