Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Chris Crittenden


yellow triangles hover like aches, ignes fatui in the gaze of charmed squash as children giggle, guised as old scratch, zeus, hobgoblins, wraiths — rabbits and wolves, pookas and pucks, refugees from sarcophagi — reapers, angels, rakehells, sylphs who cackle as they skip, juggling snickers and groans while the wind knifes through barrow leaves, lofts them like clouds of derelict spiders; and the moon lubricates her black-cat eye with a cloudy witch-cape rush.