Issue 19




Seven Poems


Bill Dunlap







We walk on water

so infrequently.

And secretly,

for water is insensible

and we, embarrassed,

know miracles

are checkbooks

for fools. 







Mortality brews the infinite.

Dreams fill gaps like pipe

across a dead space.


And between two numbers

a life might sink – without

resurrection upon division. 







I’ve carved a life

alone –

in inward caves



The hollowed arch

I fear

or terminus

in pools








My body is a bridge decaying.

Mind remains a newer home –

time refurbishes as it passes.


But mind is body’s secret –

when spans collapse

windows darken.







The idea of pain

might be the hand.

Mouth speaks to finger,


finger points to loss.

Fist holds darkness,

feeds it to the heart. 







Will you show me shining in the spotlight,

drinking poison, or tight inside

the coffin?  All three the same

but time it takes for makeup.


My shame is gone now.

That’s how we live now.

But in the grave

I’ll behave – for centuries







Read a volume in a face.

Trace lineament as ligature

to some past shock that

distorts forever – in a moment.

Or in the corners of a mouth

find a store of secrets.


But you’ll probably be wrong.

The face tells an orphan’s tale

and only the owner knows

if this hollowness is fit with time

or born that day –

that heaven died.










Bill Dunlap works mostly as a painter.  He is online at BillDunlap.com



                                               <  e·  >