creosote By Brad Barry the morning’s sun illuminates your green strands of harmonic hair (the desert’s bright cymbals) each filament shouts reasons why we should walk among you, and listen we walk soft single-tracks (your neighborhood’s disorganized, unpredictable sidewalks) and loop and circle and return by your neighbors (who always appear as someone else after the sun shifts) and as we listen to wind weave through your waving tendrils we (who forget how to see) learn anew to hear the evening’s sun highlights your glowing strands of braille new visions narrated to those of us who lose sight (by too much city that has dimmed our better set of eyes) your illuminated italics remind us of who we are and who we can become the contours of your characters read to us as we wake from concrete slumbers to find our souls’ fortunes in your setting suns creosote your glowing green strands, cowlicks and split ends need only to be heard electric hope whispered against the backdrop of our loud and busy lives Brad Barry originally hails from the San Francisco Bay Area. He earned his B. A. and M.A. from Humboldt State University (in California) and his Ph.D. from Bowling Green State University (in Ohio). He is now a Professor of English in St. George, UT.