by Michael Carlson All morning I've remembered St. Ignacio's bruise， jaundiced seagulls over Quonset， November and the gross white sky. Days s...
by C. Dale Young Midsummer lies on this town like a plague： locusts now replaced by humidity， the bloodied Nile now an algae-covered rivulet strugglin...
by Eve Merriam Once upon a time I caught a little rhyme I set it on the floor but it ran right out the door I chased it on my bicycle but it melted to...
by Chad Davidson It's the consistency of flesh that drives us， how a pome ascends the stairs of its origin. A boy shakes pears down off the higher...
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day： The score stood four to two， with but one inning more to pl...
by Emily Fragos There is so little to go on： a pale trembling hand as I stand over you， my finger tracing the words on the page， a foreign language yo...
by Lucie Brock-Broido All about Carrowmore the lambs Were blotched blue， belonging. They were waiting for carnage or Snuff. This is why they are born ...
by Gerard Manley Hopkins Not， I'll not， carrion comfort， Despair， not feast on thee； Not untwist——slack they may be——these...
by Carol Frost The bee-boy， merops apiater， on sultry thundery days filled his bosom between his coarse shirt and his skin with bees——his ...
by Marianne Moore For authorities whose hopes are shaped by mercenaries？ Writers entrapped by teatime fame and by commuters' comforts？ Not for the...