Spring, Vol 17.2
UNTITLED
Our love is a temple.
I smell your perfume whilst you dress.
Still in bed I see your reflection
And your silhouette passing in the shadows.
You are a dream of a dream
Of a line verse
Forgotten in slumber.
Gregory Arena is 54 and lives in Bergamo in Northern Italy. When not writing or teaching he spends time with his wife and daughter or goes trekking, mountain-biking, and cross-country skiing. He has published a fair amount of short stories and poems in Small Press publications.
You may never stop asking so I will tell you We were hunted like prey and forced to sleep under trees with the snakes My father was adept with a spear, though there wasn’t enough game in the world to
For I.V. I. It was the future But I remember It was that time we held hands Fingers interlocked like a zipper or the mouth of a flytrap I once folded a map at an awkward angle I punched a hole that we
He never howls when he’s awake. When everything depends—has always depended on acting like nothing is wrong. —Kate Greenstreet, from “2 of Swords” Teeth brushed directly after a radish. The effect un