What’s that buzz as if paper being cut when I exit the house to fetch some lunch? I look up to spot a dragonfly winging against the wood-topped carport. I reach for my rake, with plastic tongs, to nudge it to freedom. I try. It squirms. Yet gentled toward the September sun, it lurches and glints into the silence. G.H. Mosson is the author of three books and three chapbooks of poetry, including Singing the Forge (Wasteland Press 2025), Family Snapshot as a Poem in Time (Fini

Rows of naked faces—no one sees me now— absorbed before the actors, titillated by tragedy, while I’m safe in Row 25, you in Row 24,...