Craig Evenson

Without the thrashing snake

it is till:

a cross, i,

a pair of trainless rails

a vacant trail

an empty aisle

and empty i’ll.

Still, till

does not become

still till

after the thrashing snake.

Detaching the snake and cross

leaves those of Christian tilt

mortally ill.

Craig Evenson is a school teacher. His poems have appeared most recently in such magazines as Barrow Street, West Trade Review, and The Louisville Review. He lives in Minnesota with two dogs, two cats, a small flock of parrots, and one woman.