The Southern Review, September 22nd, 1997
Near the parking lot, a few last red leaves swirl -- catch me, catch me if you can -- toward twilit skies scarred with late autumn's frozen bits of cirrus. Or are they contrails? A jet's roar lifts my eyes -- catch
me, catch me if you can-toward twilit skies, and I walk too close to a kid-crammed car, which swerves and tailspins. Snow White lifted her eyes, still drugged with sleep, for a smitten prince;
but walking too close to a kid-crammed car, my eyes updrifting with those red swirled leaves, is dangerous. Like sleeping with a smitten prince -- but that's a fairy tale. Here's a true st...
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