Andrew Frisardi

Prime At dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fogwere fingers pointing up from graves, as if what’s bornmight rouse the dead into an epilogueof mist that lifted, leaving swatches in whitethorn. Terce My breath’s the ectoplasm of a ghostin ringing air. The local churches callthe faithful while I mark . . . . Continue Reading »

after reading Richard Wilbur’s “Hamlen Brook”      Gliding upon cascades of sound,     the crumpled leaves that ride the rushmake visible a crystal underhush               that gives the movement ground.     With . . . . Continue Reading »

The sound was coming from so far awaywe thought at first it was the breath we missedthe moment we were dead, that very day.It neared us like a moan inside a mistof wishes, harmonizing with the humof silence from a newly pulseless wrist.It was the sigh that light gives when the sumof zeroes grazes . . . . Continue Reading »