by William Olsen
Just short of danger the camcorder stops;
one van keeps plodding forth past the rain-beaten
Yield sign in the headlights, past Andover, Kansas, farm kids
stationary beside stationary pickups . . .
by James Tate
Alone in my tree house
I can hear snakes thinking—
they want eggs for breakfast,
eggs for lunch and dinner,
all the while under a cloud of frangipani perfume.
by Natasha Sajé
Sometimes you “hrmph”
when I let a chance slip
or you pinch my hand
to make me take out commas.
by Jessica Greenbaum
When I was in college I had a worldly friend (I will call her M)—a Texan fifteen years my senior who was constantly frustrated by my naiveté. When we met, I would map out my romantic conundrum-of-the-month, a situation that only an Einstein of relationships could resolve. Hardly would I finish before, with the speed of a Cray computer, a look of this-is-all-too-obvious would come over her face. She had the same response to my nonromantic dilemmas . . .
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