This half-globe of skyline and grass-skirted figures
        Dancing in place always conjures her own bump and grind,
        The job she's held longest in San Francisco.
        The paperweight's glass firmament recalls the glass
        That shields dancers from men in the booths. "Acting
        Means sacrifice," she reminds herself, selecting a cherry

        Her late arrivals make you bless your luck.
        Her early exits make you want to cry.
        One night before she leaves for work you pluck
        A sleepseed from the corner of her eye.

        Leaving my apartment you head down Columbus Avenue
        Paws pulling pavement at your own puma pace,
        Green eyes off-gassing a quiet danger.

        Your fishnets snag the attention of men:
        Their eye sockets strain, bulge, disgorge the orbs
        Altogether. They land on the street and roll after you.

Unless they frequent underground film festivals, readers of poetry are unlikely to have heard of Charlie Blumenthal, this issue's featured poet. Charlie, who was briefly a graduate student at Ashgrove University nearly fifteen years ago, died recently in San Francisco following a protracted battle with mental illness.