Issue 13, November 1997
John Carle - Poem

You will find my right arm
at the bottom of this keg of wine,
my lips on the floor beneath the sofa.

My skull holds a pencil between the teeth,
on the shelf, propping up
the collected Eliot.  The dog took a femur
for the marrow.

And now a woman takes her turn at the microphone,
leaning heavily onto my spine - I can't understand her hob-
nailed story and she is oblivious to the knocking
of my fisted bones on the floor.