A NIGHT OF BRIEF TALES
by David Eide .

On splendid days when we confront those who carry our fears, who attempt to build a new world on our stubborn resistance, those who dream of the marvelous cornucopia that pours from the head of old men leap from the aspen air where the blood runs hot, those, who remain hidden from us in the bowels of unnamed cities drink from the skulls of our conscience and ruin our fine aspirations. We resist and read the works of old poets who wander between mountain and sea, lamenting the lost and unholy people who inspire them. "There is claustrophobia even here," they sing, arms outstretched to the boundless forest of unsmoothed shells encased on the mountain trail. They sing to the old poets who lay supine under the care of doctors, looking to an empty spot in the sky and finding their soul, their vision.