Beneath black headlines here is a face of dots,
the average looking killer grim in glasses.
This undistinguished hand that fired the shots
triggers our thoughts: all faces smile suspicious.
The story mentions failure; many fail.
The murderer confesses God told him to do it.
Now he is safely martyred. Bums in jail
hammer him up with words that persecute.
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Wolf Enough
By Harold Witt
Wolf enough, he prowled outside the pack, nozzle to moon and baying loneliness, or laired in ice, unpaired, he felt the lack of someone furred to share his coldnesses—and well […]
When the Prince Kissed
By Harold Witt
When the prince kissed, it started things again— out of cracks and cocoons and sacs of silk small lives moved; all the spiders began weaving designs, and ants climbed up […]
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