No. 7


Kathrine Varnes  


I slide in, nudging a man as the bus lurches,
pull my bag up on my lap and hear
him singing ó singing with a woman ó clear
and quiet harmony without the churchís
echo: Rock a My Soul. And from our perches,
we neighboring birds who listen, we revere
the clustering of tone on tone. The mirror
of the driver winks back as he searches:

I catch his eye, ashamed itís not my song
but I donít know the words, couldnít hum along
even if I had the nerve, which I havenít got.
A hush, quiet as an empty church parking lot.
Good way to start the day, she says at last.
Amen, he says, and nods, Amen to that.



The copyright of 
everything published 
here remains 
with the authors.


Main Page | Current Issue | Contributors| News | Where to Buy | Links | Contact us | Archives

© 2003-2005 Ars Interpres Publications.