Volume 3 Number 2


Spring 2005


Julian Lamarck

My footsteps raise no noise from the young pavement.

Shop windows fail to recognize me when I pass.

The laughter just ahead will wax nervous if I look at it directly or stop to listen.

Even churches in their quiet shadow bid me not to stop to kneel or plead forgiveness; "Turn away!"

I resort to graveyards, where stones make a friendless audience.

And I would change places, if I could

With young lovers in fresh earth,

Whose last touch at least was warm with pulsing flesh.