The Trigger Unit
By Miguel Reznicek

The beautiful symbols on
the board
reflecting the magnitude
of thought
millions of years and
now he builds
the executor of his dreams

The child
now crystal clean
glimmers behind quartz glass
It’s banks all ready
It’s intricate mechanism waiting
how fragile the unit
how capable the mind

And then there is
The flaw
the scientist does not yet know
hidden in the network
of its silicon circuitry
lies dormant
the plastic
demon
of disaster

But the board still flaunts
its formulas with pride
and the scientist
weary, yet proud
smiles
chalk dust in his hands
horror in his future...

On a Drop of Rain

by: Robert Cording

Late in the day, the rain abating,
I force myself outside for my daily walk.
I do not go far. Everything is doused
and diamonded with water. Even the stones
seem polished. At each bud of every scrub
roadside tree, and even on the thorns
of wild roses, hangs a drop of rain—
as if someone had hoisted chandeliers
to light the road from end to end.

I think of Marvell, how he found a story
one morning shining with meaning
in a drop of dew. A figure for the soul,
Marvell's dewdrop contained the whole
sky and, mindful of its native home,
came and went, scarcely touching
the earthly flower on which it floated,
its one aspiration the sunny exhalation
of water into air. It never seemed to feel

death's shiver. Here, it's nearly evening,
the air still rheumy enough to silver
the weedy edge of the road where beer cans
find their rest. My raindrops—tense, trembling—
really do seem to cling for dear life,
a story, I'm sad to say, of my all too earthly
wish to hang around forever in my body.
No chance, the wind says, extinguishing

with every breeze, one drop after another.