by Minnie Bruce Pratt Through binoculars the spiral nebula was a smudged white thumbprint on the night sky. Stories said it was a mark left by the han...
by Chase Twichell When fed into the crude， imaginary machine we call the memory， the brain's hard pictures slide into the suggestive waters of the...
by Mark Jarman There they are again. It's after dark. The rain begins its sober comedy， Slicking down their hair as they wait Under a pepper tree ...
by David Dodd Lee My hand became my father's hand that day， for a second or two， as I lifted the fish， and I could feel his loneliness， my father&...
by Robert McDowell When she was younger Nessa shot a bird. She was playing Annie Oakley. Her friend Ramon Had handed her his Christmas BB gun. She rai...
by Rita Dove She was thinner， with a mannered gauntness as she paused just inside the double glass doors to survey the room， silvery cape billowing dr...
by William Matthews Amidst the too much that we buy and throw away and the far too much we wrap it in， the bear found a few items of special interest&...
by David Young You'll show that toad-eater who wrote Night Thoughts what's happened in two centuries or so. You'll make your yard the spir...
by Gwendolyn Brooks They eat beans mostly， this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood， Tin flatware....
by Lew Welch Those who can‘t find anything to live for， always invent something to die for. Then they want the rest of us to die for it， too....