One Poem by Jan Wiezorek


Helianthus annuus sprays
like holy oil from a font.

I sit here, my hands filled
with dirt in a field, watching

these children grown from discs,
creation more than clover.

Longevity is the fruit of
phototropism (facing the sun,

but features will die, I think,
if I take my eyes away).

So, I do little else, or, if I do,
I still think about them,

and if I look further
across the road, I return

here, praying in suspense,
wishing to alternate

this leaf upon that spindle,
lifting backs until they stand

upright, seeing if these eyes see
above a canopy. Even this

is not enough. So, I measure
them all against the fence.

My reality out-struts
the horizon, where you are.

But this is the middle space
where souls hinder, holding us

at arm’s length,
keeping us all spy-crazy.


Jan Wiezorek writes from Barron Lake in Michigan. He has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming at The London Magazine, Yes Poetry, L’Ephemere ReviewWords DanceTHAT Literary ReviewLeaping Clear, and Cabildo Quarterly. Jan is author of Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (Scholastic, 2011). He also writes about unsung heroes for The Paper in Buchanan, Michigan, and did so formerly as a freelancer for the Chicago Tribune. Jan holds a master’s degree in English Composition/Writing from Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago.

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