Because of their format, several poems that appear in the current issue are included only in pdf. To read them, click on their titles on the right side of this page.
In the disorderly lives of our friends a marriage
of youngsters gallantly blinded by lusts consummated
in bawdy places, never beds—on hay bales,
on the back stairs of a dorm, or coal cellars,
The city as I see it rises and falls,
taking its shape from the underlying dunes
swelling in ridges like irregular welts…
To peddle a better beater. Broader
shouldered and wasp waisted, its cradled
double floats in struck-up loops set snug
in frame limb, driven by a winged shaft
The bank towers downtown gaze
like tungsten-eyed idols over the city
“Dear child,” they’d say, “take care
never to leave it spread
Dear son of mine, dear daughter,
the forecast called
for a fine evening, and we
did laugh at first, but then we bawled;
I am not supposed to be writing poetry,
I am supposed to be turning up my nose
And taking revenge.
D. consciously left temporarily the death idea kept
as dogs in houses. Phenomenal D. did. Who could
fathom it on a scale of empty? Nothing fit.
via Emily Brontë
Such rights are set on texts
outside copyright, and that lake
is its own sphere of influence.
The house was being added to: one
widened room, new wider windows.
I held onto the sawhorse to practice ballet.