by Christopher Buckley
Twilight was a short burn before the blue
bruise a day wears into—autumn ending,
tossing its black trees low against the sky,
the shoulders of the air slumped a bit, gone
ochre at the dim earth’s blunted edge . . .
by Beth Bentley
During spring break Debbie Schwartz and I would bike
from south Minneapolis to the boathouse near the U.
The water-soaked musk of the dock, the pungence of rotting
Enveloped in fog the rowboat with its three occupants . . .
by Geraldine Connolly
The appointment is my first.
A whole hour is mine. Each square
of hair parts under Mimi’s comb,
each wisp pinched into a silver clip.
by Scott Russell Sanders
Gordon Milk knew from experience that everything on earth is doomed to sag. Floor joists, roof beams, the spines of horses, tree limbs, flower stems, the heaps of dirt over graves, his wife’s breasts, his own belly, minute by minute all were giving way under the insistence of gravity.
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