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.
Oops, hit the skid rind, cruel world
slipped a corkscrewy peel
We’ve been reading dirty
books, the kind with scurf
in their spines, cracking
their backs over my bed
This is where a hotel used to be.
Neon made the gin a sea-breeze blue,
Just as if Korea never happened.
The cloudburst leaves a brown meringue,
a kind of foamy candy on
the pool below the culvert where
the runoff plunged headlong to whip
On a black cloth, a line of chalk
Marks the course my scissors must follow.
And cursed be sexton, parish clerk,
Or any man whose dirty work
Disturbs my poor dust where it lies.
I’ll see you, though through other eyes.
An oval mirror that could fit in a child’s hand
from a pocketbook of her mother’s
for the pond beyond the door
Deplete the ascent, carving up your arms,
Returning flirty glances with the windows.
A film will attend this so don’t bother,
I stood on the bridge in the sky on the bridge between
Two buildings at the second floor but in
Between the buildings so in neither one
We were alive together once.
I thought it was that way from the beginning
of time. And I sang
my songs for him, and he rocked,
squeezing and pulling the accordion in his lap,
while his eyes glistened, shining.