How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?
After defeating
the bull-headed monster,
not once but
over and over again,
I hung my sword up
on the bullet-pitted wall,
and tried to find my way back home.
The thread was broken, though,
and now I wander in this fearful light
and search for darkness.
Peter J. King was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s. Since his return
October 7, 2020
Holding Pond
Kristin Garth
Gills desiccating, you glide through his house,
hair towel dried, Oxford shirt, slouched, secured
with belt made oversized dress — yours doused
in his tank, under duress. Damp, demure
while you saunter down bifurcated stairs,
some guests the servants were unaware, out
his front door then driveway, street. Unprepared —
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 