Hawaii Pacific Review

by Doug Ramspeck

If long-legged morning fell through glass,
I woke to the persisting marriage. You can say
the hemmed-in stars were nightingales.

You can say the grass that summer grew a small psalm through
a fissure in the sidewalk. Once you opened your eyes
beside the same person for forty years.
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by Doug Ramspeck

When Father stepped into the dark hall
then disappeared,

I think the washed corpse of moon was buried in the sky.

Someone dreamed the horses
by the fence. Someone walked into the deep woods where

coins of rain slipped and stained the body. We watched
for familiar signs in the erratic wings of moths, in the

native tongues of jays beside the river. Continue reading →