David Carlson


Union. The eclipse brokered it.
We vet the sky through pasteboard masks,
welder’s helmets, and telescopes,
no longer occulted in drums.

At our feet are leaves, shadows
in transit for an hour, scumbling
the walkways and trampled grass.
Still, speechless, suspended, we cease.

Easier to fix on that sun breach
than each other, fugitives
blenching into view, wanting new
internments to offer shelter.

Easier to fix on that breaching sun.

Under the Sun by Shasta Fox

“Focal Distance”

Under the microscope,
the web is a beaded wonder,
not the uncanny horror
of its maker’s simple eye.
There it petrifies, where once
the noiseless spider simply toiled,
netting the wind with design.
Unseen, it typified.
I draw this emblem
near until it blurs.
Three inches mark the radius
of its sovereign world,
resisting all scrutiny,
yet infinitely yielding
pushed away.

Table of Contents