2011 spring poetry worldembellished

by David Bartone

All the dots, connected.
She said he knew her already.
James Galvin said do we really
know anyone anymore.
And we all moved into the named room.

There are studies that prove.
There are methods
that turn grass fields into
sod rolls. There is music
called chorino which means

crying. The flutes in it
must be exhausted to be so sad.
I was told there are no words and
of course it is a one man
genre. One man per muscle.

About the Author

David Bartone lives in Amherst, Ma. He has recent poems in Thermos, SixthFinch, Denver Quarterly, and The Laurel Review, and a chapbook, Spring Logic, at H_NGM_N (2010).

Maintained or neglected, familiar or foreign, well-worn or wild, roadways inform our decisions and identities. Their geographies direct the movement
of our lives and sketch the cartography of our stories. In this spirit, 322 Review publishes provocative emerging and established artists whose fiction,
creative nonfiction, poetry, and mixed media artwork wander the paths of human experience. A nonprofit literary journal conceived
and operated by former Rowan University graduate students, 322 Review is based in Southern New Jersey.