A Month of SundaysKathleen HellenIn the exaggerated light of perigeeI pitter-patter to the bus stop in my flip-flops.The minute lengthening like a fen...
Drought FishingThomas ReiterMid-riverbed, below rapids dry asthe track left by a pencil eraser,I come to a pool that from bank-sideglints like the las...
Listening to CuckoosRobert AdamsonTwo unchanging notes; to us, words -- always those highelongated notes. Red-eyed koels with feathered earmuffs,downw...
This Present LifeJames ReissDid the bird that slammed into my picture windowthink its glass was an open door he could breezethrough like the sparrow f...
The Shallow EndAaron FaganNot what IAm used toThinking ofAs life -- andMore fragile --Up from theRiverbed, itTrails braidedFishing linesFrom its body ...
Where the Arrows FellV. Penelope PelizzonAt the upturns of your grin, the red beard This year's begun threading itself with white. ...
For Ruth StoneJoseph MillarSometimes you say bad things about peopleclaiming it can't be helpedyou crawl farther into the darknessjust to see what...
Not ThisOlena Kalytiak Davismy god all the days we have lived thrusayingnot thisone, not this,not now,not yet, this weekdoesn't count, was lost, t...
MatineeMark Kraushaar I'm not a marriage counselor. I don't know what's going on, and I don't want to know, but I like you. I alwa...
Porch Pew in Summer -- for Brian and Wilbur FrinkRichard RobbinsNever a prayer for some place more than this,wild turkeys in the field where old yea...