by Robert Wrigley
The last thing the old dog brought home
from her pilgrimages through the woods
was a man’s dress shoe, a black, still-shiny wing tip.
by Christine Garren
We were passionate enough
to become text. Everyone was,
underneath the orderliness
that comes with filing and cross-referencing . . .
by Rebecca McClanahan
If you are anywhere near my age, you are familiar with the Routine Procedure, that unpleasant, potentially demeaning event every conscientious internist urges you toward as you approach your fiftieth birthday.
by Roy Jacobstein
I guess I’ll be up there with all of them,
Allah, Krishna, Yahweh, God, speeding
along, shooting the shit with the Hims . . .
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