sculpted words

A survivor on Main Street 

Oh brother bison.

I’m so surprised to find you here on Main street.

Although, this may be the perfect spot for you,

when so many of your kind have passed this way.

Did your ancestors walk here with the ice age mammoth

and mastodon? What a sight that would have been.

But then we came with stone points and later,

with guns and horses. I’m so sorry, brother bison.

We shattered your peaceful evening with fire and bullets.

And left your bones to bleach in the sun.

And yet, here we are: two survivors on Main street.

I see you have traded your woolly coat for rusted

steel plates. A wise choice, brother, given our history together.

Your days now, are spent in dappled sun and shade.

while the descendants of your killers wander by in flip flops,

ice cream cones melting on opposable thumbs.

Voices murmur softly.

Above us, little birds chatter about nothing at all

and one even comes to light on your stillness.

Just like the old days.

A little breeze flutters the leaves.

Timeless music for two weary old souls here on Main Street.

We may meet again, friend, but for now, I must walk on.

Westward toward my destiny.

About the author: John Anglim (1947-2026) was an artist, musician and writer. Born in Washington, D.C., he came to the Grand Valley in 2000. He is the author of two books: “Walkabout” (a book of street photography) and “Footloose in Bardo” (a book of poems)

All Deserts Deserve Their Colossi 

Sunrise, that reliable miracle –

how could you revolutionize

exquisite silence after the train’s echo

fades into air thin and smooth like creased linen.

Just this morning two crows consulted

on Dew Drop Inn, solemn and serene,

a few steps from Main Street

and the day’s brisk and breezy plans.

A massive stone church key, it opens hearts,

speaks with wisdom’s accent,

and dispenses it in weathered whispers,

grain by grain to the wind.

All deserts deserve their colossi –

silent observers, timeless witnesses

built by man, rooted to rock, molded

to the landscape the way hot wax coats a fingertip

filling each ridge completely.

Under a spicy midday sun, it spills

a little puddle of shade on the sidewalk,

drags its shadow through the day’s long hours –

its own sundial, a subtle shifting palette

of geological colors, the blush

of amber, salmon, peach turns

to marmalade at sunset.

Then, Dew Drop Inn shares the secrets

of everyday life with the moon,

who still tugs at the tides

even though they are long gone from this place.

About the Author: Lisa Wence Connors is a Veteran, poet, and workshop facilitator, from Fruita, Colorado, where she reads, cooks, and grows tomatoes. “… revel in voluptuous red roundness, juice that glistens in the sharp autumn light, each seed a whole universe, a poem that transcends the trauma of a killing frost.”

Aurora

your curves don’t mimic the trees as much as encourage them – to seek the sum of what’s possibile to say to more than the passing scene – to citizens meandering as streams as the river runs to the whims of its own currents – regardless which way the wind blows – the news is here on Main Street – here we stand in the face of overwhelming odds – simple humans holding up the sun the moon – the storm itself blowing in from the west a frenzy of leaves about the nape of your spiral head – dancer of sudden thought of lightning bolt or dna or the smaller stuff that makes up everything – no matter what they say we learned to call it metallurgy …and the rise of the sciences – and the remains of the mythic – and scores of campers knowing to dig & sort it out – minerals – ores combined and glowing – acetylene torches burning up and passing time – passing by all the other private lives in a public space – passing by the long success of busy hands – thumbs of refinement – shovel blades – curiosities sustained with inclinations to follow perceptions of wonder for art –  art for the corner’s sake – amidst the difficulties of living on a big rock in outer space at just the right distance from a sustained atom bomb curving hot through the sky – casting shadow spirals on the sidewalk downtown – look at people lay down on a sunny day – wrap in your curves and celebrate – the heights of civilization in plain view beyond politics – beyond mere metal touched – by those for whom the norm slows – cat eyes prowl – leaves gather light – sitting with coffee and bagels by this spiral creation – born as if again enthralled by the sheen of such alluring shapes that twist up to a kind of shout – the human yawp – an animal growl – your metallic sounds… aurora  aurora   aurora

Poet contact: [email protected]

Buddha

Even if he wasn’t frozen in

bronze, he’d still sit in stillness.

From the top of his Crown

to the base of his Root —

he remains in perfect balance.

His lips and eyelids, soft as a

gentle breeze. Equally closed off

to the world as much as they’re

open to it, he waits to be heard by

passerbys — he waits to be seen.

He waits for the spinning world to

slow, to stop short and fear not the

cacophony of quiet we tend to avoid.

He waits for you to slow thyself —

a necessity to know thy true self.

It’s an invitation to join him and

be one with each moment… to melt

into it. He invites us to wake from

the murky depths of life’s chaos and

dive into the light living within.

Like the lotus, the Buddha on Main urges

us to be free from our wilted past…

to walk blind into the unkown…

to be witness of both

dawn and dusk’s eternal light.

Dragons

A woman submerges herself in Clear Lake,

top off, breasts gone, joyous as a one-handed clock.

No longer wed to time’s precision, she savors

cool September air on her scars. Surgery

was the harsh double punch of a train conductor,

but she made her body into a ticket

to keep living. Now, against scenery

of woodlands and invisible elk, she rises

exuberantly, trailing a serpentine mane.

A decade ago, her son, Little Dipper, hung back

at the same lake’s edge, feet half-sandaled,

gazing with trepidation at the water as he toed it.

Funny, he wouldn’t get in. Little Dipper,

because he fearlessly stuck his fingers in everything,

batter, makeup, paint—swirl still on the wall

like fire-breath, years later, when she came home

after the mastectomy and crawled into bed.

The lake embraces her in alchemy. Capable

of eroding the hardest stone, it instead turns her

more beast than maiden, more apex

than smooth. Water is an ancient wingless

guardian, curious of her. It believes she will survive

at least another decade, live to celebrate the next

Year of the Fire Dragon, even as bubbles appear

on its surface from decomposing matter.

Easier Said

click-click click, click

6-7-8-16 (four long lines

of a wild cat claw scratch –

that sound) sh-sh sh-sh sh

whoosh — hoofbeats —

sh-sh sh-unsure unseen

wrap around me

let me climb inside

your mystic wax

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

the wax is lost

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

the wax is lost but

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

the wax is lost but

the spirit is caught

I wait

for inspiration —

You speak, yet

You have no lungs

no lips, no teeth, no

tongue. An obelisk

You’re not; no ivory

tower neither; more like

cat in my belly, raven

in my chest after

the wax is lost but

the spirit is caught

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

bone deep drum chant

that’s what counts

raise hands, arms to the sky,

let hair loose to fly

keep moving to the music

whatever it is the spirit

hears after the wax is lost

and the spirit is caught

in the deep-current joy

of a hand-made life

corvus of my heart

puma of my belly

allow this tower

to rise in me,

a lift and pounce

of language, silence,

sound scraping, drawn

with a stick in sand

on some stellar beach

flung in a backwater

of the unknown cosmos

where everything

bears witness to light,

dark bodies swirl

as one liquid being

when the wax is lost

and the spirit is caught

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

aluminum, bronze, bark

leaf pattern shadows

fluttering, bare fingers

in winter, magic as We

know only deep in

original pith, the first

growth, first desires

where black feathers

lean into flesh

where heartwood

glistens against

skin, bone, bright

red shift of rhythm, of

revolve, spin, the aperture

of here where the wax is lost

and the spirit is caught,

where as a child,

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

I once stood in the hands

of a goddess as late sun

bronzed honey over,

the forest folio: every leaf,

pine needle, grass blade,

every stone and cloud.

I could have disappeared,

stepping light like a feline,

alert, relaxed, as earth

exhales and a body

can curl, cozy, be seen

only by robber jays,

floating seeds, tree tops when

the wax is lost and the

spirit is caught in a hollow

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

of the goddess’s arm.

What I haven’t said is

relief

guilt

grief

breath

celebration of what

We’ve done

of the life forces

given for a child

a human moving

into its next and next

and last night,

my love, the moon’s light

as if reflected off a forever

trunk, filling hollows around

our questions, cat

bodies heavy with sleep

while we breathed

deeply, at last of each

the other oo’-noo-roo

oos’-um as the wax is lost

and our spirits are caught

all that, a record

writ long in claw mark

coordinates and kanji,

in bronze and aluminum.

hieroglyphics, pictographs

and petroglyphs …

numbers, letters, gestures

… impression … expression …

communication our first tool

and this Volume [of] Text

exists for itself because of

itself [and] nothing

in the process …

is hidden. Elm, honey

locust, these trees speak

with winds but You speak

with light; We hear

with our eyes the

wax that is lost

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

and the spirit

that is caught in the

mystery not to be

solved, a code not to be

broken but a way of living

with the unknowable

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um

while speaking with

trees, passersby, prophets,

smoke plumes and river

here where all languages

meld back together

sight lines and songlines

when the wax becomes

lost and the spirit is caught

in the click-click click, click

6-7-8-16 (four long lines

of a wild cat claw scratch –

that sound) sh-sh sh-sh sh

whoosh — hoofbeats —

sh-sh sh-unsure unseen as

at first, I wanted to know

everything. I spent hours

sitting, waiting, looking,

seeking but now, it’s all

re-solved. I love Your

mystery even more

as lost wax where Your

caught spirit glitters

and shines and

oo’-noo-roo oos’-um.

lost. caught.

I step forward and backward

and get lost. At certain times

I am not sure what I am

doing. Those are the best.

• Bill Vielehr

Frozen in Freedom

Look at her.

Frozen in freedom.

Riding into the best kind of day.

Sun warmed.

Breeze running its wispy fingers through her hair.

The only truth she knows is innocence.

Possibilities as full and as ripe as the peaches she passes.

And maybe,

this truth that has been locked in bronze,

also lives inside me.

A forgotten bell, cast in the same metal.

Surrounding my heart.

Just waiting to be struck.

A clear tone.

A resonance.

A beckoning.

Where oh where might the road take you?

I can almost feel the sun.

The breeze.

The possibilities so wild and sweet.

What wonders would arrive if only I were willing?

To remember.

To listen.

To crack the bronze of the day to day.

For a moment.

For a breath.

And ride.

Ride.

Ride.

High Heeled Feet / Size 5    

At 514 Main

there’s an alloyed homage to the paths that we’ve trod

and it’s soooo perfect

from when barefoot    in tall grass    toward rivers and caves

to board rooms and ballrooms and strippers, oh my

When you find it, go ahead, touch those odd toes

mismatched and knobby

individual yet a team

Then run your hand along the hard arch

grasp the mileage of how far we’ve come

sense how they know

how far we’ve yet to go

to glide at the height of our stride

tall  taller          tallest

seen     seener    seenest

The road has been long and cobbled

a reverence is due …

for those that marched for a say / kicked up dust for same pay

because life liberty and the pursuit of pedicures for all!

Machined to move

you were forward focused and pumped

that’s how you became outstanding

a hand on the shoehorn

to edge in some fun

Because point A to point B

is a feat of fashion AND function

dodging city grates that grab at the heel

stomping local grapes that sate our souls

Sassy brassy feet

loose and fancy free

you fought the good fight and looked Diva while doing it

           Now, can I try those in a 7?

About the author: Daiva Chesonis was born in Baltimore, Maryland, and now lives off-grid in southwest Colorado. She has a B.A. in Russian Studies and an M.A. in Diplomacy & International Conflict Resolution. She moved to Telluride in 1992 as part of the team that built the Gondola transportation system. She stayed and became a snowboard instructor, Art Director at Telluride Magazine, and a traveling minstrel for Mountainfilm on Tour before becoming co-owner of Between the Covers Bookstore, where she co-founded the Telluride Literary Arts Festival. From 2019-21 she was San Miguel County Poet Laureate. In the fall of 2025, she and her husband Craig Childs were Writers in Residence at the Hemingway House in Ketchum, Idaho. Her poems—in translation or written in her first language—appeared in the 2025 and 2026 Anthologies of Lithuanian American Poetry. Her first book of poetry is set to publish sometime this century.

IF YOU’D LIKE TO RETURN TO THE BEGINNING OF THE WORLD

If you’d like to return

to the beginning of the world,

read this

carve yourself from stone if you must

carry fresh cut lilies for the stranger

in your heart, a song for the war within

sound out the words you’ve yet

to learn, the way a child may

whisper peace one thousand times

let the ease of its honey

lay on your tongue

peace

peace

peace

About the Author: Kyle Harvey is a poet, documentary filmmaker and songwriter. His most recent collection of poems, Cosmographies, was published by Cuneiform Press in 2022. Harvey is the editor of Neeli Cherkovski’s Selected Poems 1959-2022, as well as Coolidge & Cherkovski: In Conversation. Kyle lives with his wife and children in Fruita, Colorado, where he manages Lithic Bookstore and designs books for Lithic Press. For more information, please visit: www.kyleharveypoet.com

INNER PATINA

Bronzed palms beckon,

one forward to give,

one backward to receive,

in constant reciprocation,

the I and Thou¹ gathers

within the soul, patinaed with openness.

Her braid reaches toward the sky,

weathered with existence, pressing its green-blue light

onto the surface, clinging to copper’s warmth.

Her eyes closed to hold peace

in this space, on Main Street,

where passersby take pause.

1 I and Thou by Martin Buber (1923)

About the Author: Trish Hopkinson is a poet and advocate for the literary arts. You can find her online at SelfishPoet.com and in western Colorado where she runs the regional poetry group Rock Canyon Poets. Hopkinson happily answers to atheist, feminist, and empty nester; and enjoys traveling, live music, wine-tasting, and craft beer.

Kelsey

Imagine a daughter

at the tender age of self-interrogation.

Imagine her confusion

when her father unveils

from beneath a canvas sheet

what he has told her

is made in her image.

When the thing in front of her

is not girl-looking at all

but like some

punctuation, path of a comet

painted over in red, velvet-

carpeted staircase

ascending toward a destiny

that casts a shadow thin as a ribbon.

Imagine her momentary

disappointment until other years

answer the questions of these years.

After her father’s hands

don’t shape in the way they were

once able.

Imagine the message

when she considers again

from a different angle,

from a new height

his dedication woven between

bends of the scribbled line:

You are lightning.

You are elation.

Ode on a shiny chrome buffalo

A synthesis of the old and the new

sacred animal of the frontier plains and

chrome bumpers from the dominant modern beast

crafted with love by Lou Wille in Colorado

bonded to its older sister in John Denver’s Aspen

Since 1989 through recession bust and boom lust

the mighty chrome beast has commanded the corner

of 4th and Main, in front of some bank, it changes

but the artsy buffalo stands unchanged

miraculously it doesn’t shed or even rust

Like the bison once in the canyons

of the Colorado National Monument

this chrome buffalo is an introduced species

brought to Grand Junction

to beautify the plaza, to evoke a reaction

To remind us of something we already know

Mighty symbol of the American frontier

the wild land that was, the natural world we stole

its grassland we paved over with corn

composed of 20th century metallic might

the chromium bumper, proving not just hides

and sinew can be useful, but discarded metal as well

This shiny mammal on a G.J. corner

is as well loved as the Plains Indians buffalo and

Henry Ford or Volkswagen’s four-wheeled constructions

not extirpated or superseded, but the living grace

of a one-off welded art sculpture

The silvery stately grazer stands resolute

on the marvelous milieu of Main Street

however harmless to a passer-by or customer

perhaps seeking pizza, coffee, or cash

who always appreciate and marvel at this mute

About the Author: Visit Jack’s website to learn more. 

Home

Rictal Bristles

Stitch my stones to gills of steel kid

What torsion of Zia heat rifts you so?

I am whole

I am heavy

Erosionally elegant – though askew /

Orthogonally

bolted to this

pregnant orbital..

Our compass

is not so different kid.

Smoke

rusts

an estuary of time between us – but

plucked and printed

still for a welded second

you can still name both moons right?

o Hide the spice

of your sunlashes

None but the rain

will suffice as

the pendulum to our tune

together:

We are wrought iron globules of remembrance and destruction

But a quill of wind

and water over

granite dimple;

Rictal Bristles

with which

to hum

& humble:

Thank you so much for this valley, little stream

Thank you for the smooth tongue of your glaciers

Thank you so much for the ores of your urgency

and the patience

of your hills..

Time will do as time does

& time does

Time

does.

About the Author: For more info about Ben, visit his website. bbben.org

Stone Wing

Stone Wing

unfeathered thing

slicked from black marble

blazed with a Milky Way

of wishing stars

fallen to earth.

Unfurl your impossible

promise.

Let freedom rise.

Sun Reachers

Did the sun reachers split open the mortar

             crunch by

                           little crunch

                           before the bust

up through the crust?

Did these broad, rough leaves, coarsely toothed,

              drill through

              pavement

              in order to

              salute

              me and you?

Was their arrival a shattering through?

                           Or a steady creep?

Pioneer species outstrip the streets

                           to compete against the yield.

Heart-shaped leaves against the bottom line.

Seedlings bulldoze.

Sprouts shoot.

Flowers and flora flourish once more.

The proof that roots and stems beat

bog, turf, peat.

This adaptation to disturbance

            gives untamed, undesirable plants,

                          often called weeds,

                          leverage over pastures and concrete.

Sunflowers.

Spinning Suns.

Thousands of days.

Thousands of Suns.

Cockscomb of light and warmth.

Spinning Suns.

Roaring Lions Mane.

Flower Heads of razorblades.

Ring of Fire.

Show your face.

Yellow discs aspire beyond cultivated landscape.

Ray Florets.

Sun Cruiser.

From the underground,

               a subterranean uprising.

Potent leaves treat headache.

Pulverized petals relieve tummy ache.

Poultice for wounds, swelling, snake and spider bites.

Edible oils, teas, seeds and fruits.

Orient your body and face towards the sun.

Heat up your heart, belly and face.

Inhabit your sacred space on this plane.

Palpate.

Plant.

Reach.

The flower’s bloom.

Round trip.

I swear that’s how it happens

              and it happened like that.

Que Buscan El Sol

¿Los que buscan el sol rajaron el mortero

crujiodo por

pequeño crujido

antes de romper

hacia arriba por la corteza?

¿Eran estas hojas anchas y ásperas de bordes toscamente dentados

que perforaron

                           el pavimento

para saludarme

a mí y a tí?

Supuso su llegada una ruptura

o un avance lento y constante?

Especies pioneras aventajar a las calles,

              a competir contra el rendimiento.

Hojas de forma corazón contra el balance final.

Las plántulas arrasan.

Los brotes aparecen de repente.

Flores y flora florecen una vez más.

La prueba que los raíces y tallos derrotan

              pantano, turbal, tepe.

Esta adaptación a perturbación

              produce plantas silvestres y indeseables

              a menudo llamadas malas hierbas

             que les da ventaja sobre pastizales y el hormigón

Girasoles.

Giran los soles.

Miles de días.

Miles de soles.

Cresta de gallo de luz y calor.

Soles que giran.

Melena de león rugiente.

Cabezuelas florales de hojas de rastrillo.

Anillo de fuego.

Enseña tu cara.

Discos amarillos aspiran más allá del paisaje cultivado.

Florecillas en forma de rayo.

Crucero solar.

Desde el subsuelo,

             un levantamiento subterráneo.

Hojas potentes tratan dolor de cabeza.

Pétalos pulverizados alivian dolor de panza.

Emplasto para heridas, hinchazón, mordidas de cascabél y araña.

Aceites comestibles, tés, semillas y frutas.

Orienta tu cuerpo y tu rostro hacia el sol.

Calienta tu corazón, vientre y rostro.

Habita tu espacio sagrado en este plano.

Palpar.

Plantar.

Alzar.

La flor en pleno esplendor.

Ida y vuelta.

Juró que así se pasa

              y así se paso.

The Gods Within

Rooted deep inside,

way under bone and skin,

they live, vital and serene.

The gods within.

Fall back into the vast dreamtime,

and you will encounter the deities

who shape the world.

Hermes, Masau’u, and Éshú—

the gatekeepers, the first we

meet; Mary, Hera, and Nana

Buluku—the mothers; Indra,

Zeus, and Yahweh—the

fathers; Awanyu, Ma’at, and

Amaterasu—the balance;

Artemis, Faunus, and Mokosh—

the realm of nature; Euterpe,

Veles, and Kokopelli—creators.

While all the deities dwell

within, they reach out, shape

the earth, air, fire, and water:

the patterns of the universe.

You can witness them in the

crescent moon at dusk above

the worn, sandstone cliffs;

in the red-tailed hawk

circling the blue dome sky,

seeking its brown fur prey;

in the ravens gathered over

a deer carcass on the forest

floor, life feeding on life;

in the light of the planet Venus

scattered off the dark Aegean

waves on the coast of Naxos;

in the symphonic orchestra

performing Stravinsky’s

fiery sacrifice of spring;

in the Acoma Pueblo potter

when she shapes the damp

clay in the ancient way;

in the screech of the missile

bringing flaming demise to

someone’s bitter enemies;

in the blue glow of fissioning

plutonium, the subatomic

mysteries of dawn and death;

in disease and the body’s

battle with disease, life’s

humbling of its own birth;

in the flood, the tornado,

the hurricane, the shaking

of the earth—nature’s lash;

in the dynamo, the kiva, the

lifting of the wheels from the

runway, the cathedral chants;

in the planting of the seeds—

corn, squash, barley, wheat,

and beans—the earth’s accord;

in the lovers’ naked embrace,

the harmony of yin and yang,

the origin of all creation;

in the vastness of space and

the sheltering sky that holds

us from the supreme void;

in the shape of the sacred vision

at the end of a poet’s

pen or the painter’s brush.

So, give them honor and

praise, these goddesses

and gods who dwell within.

They are the guides to our

inner reality and the outer

truth, from underneath our

flesh out to the infinite stars.

About the Author: John Nizalowski is the author/editor of six books, including Chronicles of the Forbidden, a finalist for the 2020 Colorado Book Award, and The Emergence of Frank Waters, a volume of scholarly essays co-edited with Alexander Blackburn. Before retiring, he taught mythology, creative writing, and cultural studies at Colorado Mesa University.

The Listening

From this place I have heard the blackbird,

the long grass, the frightened and

the kind word.

I have known the moon. Like you

I look like stone

but I am bronze as I am fawn.

These are the lessons the autumn brings.

Shifting are these rains and winds.

.

From this place I have heard the groundlings,

raptors and even coyote-willow sing

accompanied by

an undeniable twinkle in the eye.

Are you a gardener too, under this autumn moon?

What are you growing, what drum

are you beating, what song are you singing?

I may sound like I’m the dawn

but I have been listening for a long time.

I am given the name of deer but I am doe,

buck, antelope.  Sister to the moon.

Are you a traveler, too ?  A tender of the fires,

a healer, a listener, a warrior, a small and true force

of nature under a great blue sky?

You might think that I’m a sleeper in your story but

we listeners have been tending fires

in these winds for a long, long time.

About the Author: Wendy Videlock of Palisade is an award winning poet, syndicated newspaper columnist, radio host, keynote speaker, teacher, essayist, visual artist and advocate of the arts and humanities. Her works appear in Best American Poetry, O Magazine, The New York Times and other venues. Her books are available wherever books are sold. Her visual art appears in galleries across the Grand Valley. Wendy currently serves as poet laureate of the Western Slope.

To All Who Enter Here

May all who find shelter or seek pleasure

in this place pause to remember this:

here, a gnarled juniper once stood,

here came the crossing of the Ute,

right here coyote raised her brood.

Right here stand you. Here, where

countless travelers have passed through.

Here where the rabbit brush bloomed.

Here where a spotted Mustang stood.

And surely right here, a young poet

kneeled down to touch the Earth.

Here where you stand, a child

spoke her first word. Here, where

a burro, startled by a thunderous herd,

began to learn the nature of the burden

and the path becoming blurred.

Here stand you. Here,

where the collared lizard sunned

himself on lichen-covered stone, here,

where a thousand nameless creatures

have laid down their bones.

Here, where so many have come,

and have gone, leaving nothing,

it may seem, behind. Here stand you.

Tread softly and be kind.

About the Author: Wendy Videlock of Palisade is an award winning poet, syndicated newspaper columnist, radio host, keynote speaker, teacher, essayist, visual artist and advocate of the arts and humanities. Her works appear in Best American Poetry, O Magazine, The New York Times and other venues. Her books are available wherever books are sold. Her visual art appears in galleries across the Grand Valley. Wendy currently serves as poet laureate of the Western Slope.

Unbecoming

These hollow bands of bronze seem

almost liquid, an off-kilter pyramid

poured downward to rest on its point,

each face emptied at the center, a set

of frames for not much—the squat Grand

Junction Convention Center, Hamton Inn,

Credit Union of Colorado—and always

some sliver of itself, a shining edge

from the far facet shouldering into this

earthtone view, insisting that we see

what we see through. The top glares

with recycled sunlight. It doesn’t burn

my fingers. The color: dull gold rolled

in dirt. Clean geometry, storyless, though

the woman it honors, Anne Wagner, was

a Rosie the Riveter. The artist said,

“I envisioned a grasshopper metamorphosing

into stone.” Something insect in the color, yes,

the upward angles of grasshopper legs,

this tribute to Anne and her husband, Mark:

a grasshopper, a vibrating thread

of will, solidified. When I rap its flank,

a bell echoes to life inside its carapace.

Then dissipates into the blue and burning

sky. Under this heavy emptiness,

the neighbor tree is a gift of shade.

We’ve named it honey locust. Everywhere:

insects, language, leaves. The sun

can’t penetrate. A passing smoker

makes my eyes sting. Metamorphosis,

this tribute to living, this bright handle

soldered onto living’s impossible end.

About the Author:  Dan Rosenberg’s most recent collection of poems is Bassinet (Carnegie Mellon, 2022), and his most recent book of translations is Slovenian poet Miklavž Komelj’s new and selected poems, Night Is More Abstract (Zephyr Press, 2026). His work has won the American Poetry Journal Book Prize and the Omnidawn Poetry Chapbook Contest, and individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Harvard Review, Kenyon Review, Conjunctions, and Ploughshares. Rosenberg co-hosts the Yetzirah Reading Series, serves as poetry editor for Pinyon, and teaches at Colorado Mesa University.

Uncomplicated Moon – Reven Marie Swanson (2008)

this, then, is the sum of our parts—

molten amber at the heart of you,

a cross-section of cosmic capillaries

breathing light into the void

the heart obscured by the hand

that named it, eager as the wind

for revolution, revolution, revolution

revelation in each hand-forged edge,

ribs blown wide, open to the air,

every vertex the site of recursion

an epiphany of angles asking

if this is what it means to be seen

and not waiting for the answer

a predilection for remembrance

folding in the lingering other

renewal in these occultations of self

—circling, circling, endlessly

A note from the author: For Dalton Trumbo – Grand Junction, CO, native, National Book Award winner, and one of the blacklisted “Hollywood Ten”

Without Exception

I bet you would laugh if you saw yourself soaking

on 7^th & Main in a bathtub of bronze

with what looks like a pen in each hand.

A tray spans your tub, holds your cup, your writing stand

while you gaze down the street with those long staring eyes

as if on the edge of understanding.

You’re permanently frozen

in your favorite writing place

where etched ripples of water

surround your half-submerged calves and bony knees

that emerge from below like the giant in The Awakening.

But unlike that sculpture,

you look perfectly comfortable and serene.

A pillow for your back,

a rubber duck for company.

Are the illegible swoops and whirls on your tablet

ideas that drift away before you catch them?

Or are they words that go unheard

like when you tried to remind your critics

of the first amendment’s power

to protect your political views.

During your Congressional hearing,

you kept asking Have I committed a crime?

The committee engaged in the very thing they feared —

an Un-American activity.

Jailed and blacklisted,

what was your answer?

To write.

You kept writing

even though they didn’t think

they liked your ideas.

You kept writing

and they unwittingly listened to you.

You kept writing

and your film about a woman’s freedom

won Oscars for you and Audrey Hepburn

even though you weren’t free

to put your name on the script.

You kept writing

and won another Oscar you couldn’t claim

for The Brave One.

You kept writing

until you embarrassed

the studios.

You kept writing

until wrongs

were righted.

You said of that dark time:

…it will do no good to search for villains or heroes

or saints or devils because there were none;

there were only victims…

because almost without exception

each of us felt compelled

to say things

we did not want to say,

to do things

we did not want to do,

to deliver and receive wounds

we truly did not want to exchange.

That is why none of us —

right, left, or center —

emerged from that long nightmare without sin.

Now I know why you stare down the street

with that haunted look in your eye.

You know what we’re capable of

and what it takes to survive.

About the Author: Jill Burkey’s work won the Mark Fischer Poetry Prize, and her poems have been called “warm, complex, and intensely satisfying.” Jill taught poetry for Colorado Humanities’ WITS program, and her first chapbook of poetry, The Two Hearts Inside Us by Lithic Press is available at www.jillburkey.com, where you can also connect with her.