by WC Roberts

Bruce Davidson, Brooklyn Gang. 1959.                        

She ripens
(a sunburst
and I alone
can endure
those juices;
catered flesh
and our youth
thrown together
puts out the night.

The vision flares into a blaze
brilliant as a sunspot torn from the plasma
a darkening path gone through and down
Sol's burnt orange incandescence

Bruce Davidson, Wales. 1965.                                  


WC Roberts lives in a mobile home on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in WC's own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes, and has had poems published in Polu Texni, Strange Horizons, Apex, Space & Time Magazine, Bete Noire, Aoife's Kiss, Star*Line, and others.