Gerhard The March

Randall Mann

The Sunset

Fog, like reason, settles on the peeling district.
This is the new money. The new economy.
Where my lover lives. When I left him,
I left books, coats, silverware. Things.
It wasn’t charity; it was an impure,
commonplace case of forgetting. (May he find some use

for my low-rent betrayals.) Land ends
with miles of aloe along the Great Highway.
Surfers strip off their suits, half-naked
to the naked sea. The sand’s ignored
these are the notes of the drowned.


Red Ape
Little Mercy

an orangutan man
russet, big, robust
hunkers behind a tree
in a river in Borneo
having furtively crossed

—furtively because he knows Man men
who tread the earth with jackboots
rule these parts ruthlessly
and have little mercy for his kind

have little mercy

have cut themselves from Mother
with the knife edge of
dollar bills

cut themselves with
little mercy

Jim Culleny