by Pattiann Rogers
The sound of such convoluted thinking
has the same sound as the surf, perhaps;
for the speaking surf has many tongues
that divulge and stutter, prod forward
by Brendan Galvin
I might have become a seaport’s
drunk if poems hadn’t
grabbed me by the throat.
If I say Caledonian–MacBrayne,
my pulse rate drops and I’m ready
to sail on just my name . . .
by Lynn Marie
Taiesha peels Raggedy–doll bedsheet off her lap, giant–steps over make– believe mosquitoes in her garden. She re–firms the Puerto Rican sombrero until it’s snug as spandex. Blue ribbons don’t keep hats on sleepers, but they might hang or strangle—so Taiesha tugs bow untied. She stretches down her own damn Yankees cap so tight it pinches neck hair. Bedside clock blinks 12:46 in crimson.
by James Kilgo
It’s a rare thing these days to come face to face with a wild animal that is powerful enough to kill you. In the lower forty-eight your best bet is Glacier or Yellowstone National Park. It’s not likely even in those places, but it is possible because grizzlies live there.
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