an online magazine of fragmentary writing



Spring 2010 :: Current Issue

Lines Without Poems

Barbara F. Lefcowitz

First Lines

Sing to me, red-haired Irish trees, sing “The Rose of Tralee.”

When my parents made me, the bedsprings laughed so hard they broke apart.

The laundry waits on line for a breeze to give it wings.

When the cow jumped over the moon she entered menopause.

Is this the road to Mandalay? I see no flying fish.

Some people laugh like cracked eggshells, others like banging spoons.

The last glacier will wear a blue negligee with a lace collar.

Last Lines

Sorry, but Kilroy was never here.

Sidewalk grooves map lost cities, bustle and spirit gone.

Nobody sings about Jupiter’s 62 moons.

I glimpsed my guardian angel from a window of the Paris Metro.

What are analogies but efforts to find mirrors for abstractions?

By chance I was born, by fate I will surely die.

I just lost the best line of this poem.


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