Four Poems
Stefi Weisburd


in a vinyl hat
walks up the cobbled street
towards the castle
made of marshmallows
oh rain oh rain

Little Nothings

lemon rinds float in a deep blue enamel bathtub. strange, thinks the inspector, the water has slipped out without informing the lemons. fin prints parade on the vic's chest. blood runs the horses. a wall clock chimes kind kind kind, but the sound will not fit into any ear. it will not unlock any door. at first the inspector suspects the perp is narcissistic and sooner or later will leave clues in lipstick smears on compass glass or in vapor hieroglyphics on the mirror. but now he senses another trail gone cold. another bitter report written in cloud milk.

What is the wind
spelling in the

its name its name its name

The Real Story

the moon close up
is a clot of cobwebs

under a microscope, water
is made of transparent gears

oh stars, stop your starring
give the dark a rest