by Fred Leebron
It’s like Christmas here. Strings of light are slung along the balustrades and tangled in the trees. The air is thin and cool, the streets chime. Our waitress at the outdoor café serves us green pasta with a red sauce. A burnt smell rises from the sidewalk, the buildings, and fumes up into the mountains, where a week ago a groom on his honeymoon was struck by lightning.
by Frances Mayes
don’t expect petting. They sleep
by day under cars or saunter
the ramparts. Some are missing ears,
others half their tails, . . .
by Beverly Lowry
I met Donald Barthelme in 1973. He was long famous by then of course; I had published nothing.
by Peter Makuck
A sea robin flickered,
Skimmed, and re-entered with barely a splash.
Then the sea surface glittered.
And the afternoon went on like that, . . .
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