A man in Houston tossing his laundry to the street from a third floor window, shouting, “If we   

want to go back to Nature, for God’s sake, we can’t go in these.”


His underwear raining onto a small spruce tree, then, for days, hanging there limp, like fruit,  

or words.



The unbreakable babble of a river at rest.

Then, during heavy rain, how the same river will awake, screaming. 

“Even if you can’t understand it,” Michael’s father told him, standing on the bank of the Red,  

“you should still listen for a while. Just shut up and listen.”


by Travis Vick

A recent graduate, Travis Vick has spent the past years studying poetry beneath B.H. Fairchild and Bruce Bond.

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