by Conor O'Callaghan
I am a strange alarm clock,
the recently boiled kettle,
a cup no one else uses
upside-down by the sink, . . .
by Ray A. Young Bear
Above, over the green rounded hill,
my catatonic uncle strikes the partially
embedded walnuts with his hooked cane.
by Stephen Dobyns
Heart meets Death in a fashionable singles bar
and they dance. Why so standoffish? asks Death.
Why must you squeeze me so tight? asks Heart.
They take a few turns about the floor. You keep
trying to lead, says Death. You step on my feet,
by Barrie Jean Borich
We are standing in J.C. Penney’s men’s department when I realize what sort of king I have married. She is holding up ties, one with fluorescent triangles and intersecting lines, a pop art geometry assignment, the other a delicate Victorian print with inlaid roses that shimmer under the too–white department store lights.
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