Because of their format, several poems that appear in the current issue are included as pdfs. To read them, click on their titles below or on the right side of this page.
The harbor hardly sleeps at night, what with
listening in, glittering. Masts hover and sway
while keels answer in watery knocks, their own way
It’s the peeling birch and the lake glimpsed through it,
sheets buckling in wind, the emerald seams of moss
between pavers, three children rounding a bend.
In the Father’s shadowy hoard
pillows belch feathers across
mattress and floors:
I row with the wind in my apple-wood skin,
maw on crow’s dust and raw turnips.
What feeds on want behind the masks of houses?
A year of rain in an hour.
Then dawn. On the Quikcrete
patio a leaden mirror.
On Sundays we composed our own music.
Tapped a nickel against a mailbox,
pounded the wall with the heel of our
palms, and sought a demo-type sound.
Strange word for so simple
a thing as a flat felt hat.
Don’t forget your bear-ay,
my mother’d say, and I thought it
You nicked me
now give me back,
Summering in Pennsylvania
and wintering in Florida
would give me two addresses.
Making a pilgrimage to Albuquerque
to give thanks I cheated heart surgery
of a bad outcome only last month,