Writing
Any Other Street
Francine Witte
Any Other Street
would be made of asphalt, black pitch
pillowing in the August heat. But this street
is woven with bones and ash and anything else
leftover when a dream dies. It’s the kind
of street you try to av...
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Poem
Three poems
Francine Witte
Dream Lover
All those nights I wanted John
to call. See how good? See
how really good I can quit you?
But he didn’t listen. Or call.
Just shows up in a dream last week
with the past slung over his shoulder,
...
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Art
Cabin
Francine Witte
Every night when the sun sets, I see her. Just over my shoulder like a blind spot in the rearview. Always. Been like this forever. I tell this to my best friend Al, and she laughs her giggly laugh, the one that makes me ...
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