Dotted Line Dotted Line

Poetry Summer 2013    fiction    all issues


Sharron Singleton
Five Poems

Sarah Giragosian
Five Poems

Jenna Kilic
Five Poems

Kristina McDonald
Five Poems

Toni Hanner
Five Poems

Annie Mascorro
Five Poems

Brittney Corrigan
Three Poems

S. E. Hudgens
Four Poems

Ali Doerscher
Four Poems

David Sloan
Three Poems

Olivia Cole
Five Poems

Lucy M. Logsdon
Four Poems

Marc Pietrzykowski
Four Poems

Donna Levine Gershon
Five Poems

Eva Heisler
The Olden Days

Stephanie Rose Adams
Five Poems

Jill Kelly
Five Encounters

Ben Bever
Five Poems

Michael Hugh Lythgoe
Five Poems

Arlene Zide
Three Poems

Harry Bauld
Five Poems

Lisa Zerkle
Four Poems

Peter Mishler
Five Poems

Tim Hawkins
Five Poems

Marqus Bobesich
Four Poems

Abigail Templeton-Greene
Five Poems

Eric Duenez
Five Poems

Anne Graue
Five Poems

Susan Laughter Meyers
Five Poems

Peter Kahn
Two Poems

D. Ellis Phelps
Five Poems

Linda Sonia Miller
The Kingdom

Nicklaus Wenzel
Skagit River

Holly Cian
Five Poems

Susan Morse
Five Poems

Daniel Lassell
Five Poems

Svetlana Lavochkina
Temperate Zones

Daniel Sinderson
Three Poems

Catherine Garland
Five Poems

Michael Fleming
Five Poems

Nicklaus Wenzel

Skagit River


The wet earth

Littered with pine droppings

Green needles dying yellow

In the rootdappled mud

While limpid and lakish

Drops hang, suspended

Teasing, falling

From forked boughs—

Through the air

Through the bracken

And down into

The wet earth:

The underground woodlines:

Like train schedules of comings,

Goings . . .


The gray buffalo clouds

Through the canopy,


Lazily by

Into the beards

Of fog


Dark peaks.

Out here, days

Go by. Out here

Fire’s kind, from a cabin:

Burnt brush smoke.


Gray, it

Courses at all sides

Laboring down from

The mountains.

And laboring down from

The banks, we

Move surefooted—

Still, tentative.

The rocks adjusting

Under our weight

Tumbling algaebacked

Loosing mud—

A sparse clacking

Buried in the lull.

The frothrills

Roll and swirl dirtily

Under the slag of

Sky: cold, and blindly

Rushing . . .

To brighter climes,

Less ashen, not so


Wading out ahead—

My travelling partner—

His khaki pants darkened,

His white T-shirt stuck pink and

Lucid against his back

Turning round to speak

In a human language,

Grinning . . .

The melted snow

And sediment, at all sides—

The pines slumbering

Darkly off the flume —

The campsite: miles behind,

Still casting its acrid smoke.

The round stones

Piled at riversedge,

Become wet, dappled—

An admonition: Find shelter . . .

Make a fire . . . wait it out.

Nicklaus Wenzel was born in the Pacific Northwest in a suburb just outside of Seattle. He studied Russian and French literature at the Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington.

Dotted Line