by William Hathaway
My misty meadow’s all abloom
in a bright yellow smear of primroses,
still open at first dawn. Earlier down the road
on my amble back to this little field,
Minerva’s owl flew over me,
squawking like a heron on her way home.
by Andrea Hollander Budy
“My face looks like a wedding cake left
out in the rain,” Auden famously said,
though when he said it, no one
would have thought it profound.
The photographer continued to stand
and smile . . .
by William Virgil Davis
A tiger drinks from a pool of water
in the midst of a meadow surrounded
by meadows and a few trees, somewhere
in Africa or India, it doesn’t matter.
by Tara Mantel
I watch the dead, but not in the way you might think: that is, as spirits, as cold-cloud entities hovering in the corners of rooms said to be haunted, or as they appear in horror films—gray-blue zombies hobbling rancidly down abandoned urban streets or in moonlit cornfields. Rather, I watch the ni of my old and sick ones break down and lose its vitality. I watch until the ni cannot keep wrong thoughts away, until they swirl down from the mind to the soul, already hollowed, as if awaiting them.
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