by Brian Swann
They’re building a restaurant at the top of the hill
on a street of ruined houses, glassless windows,
no doors, in front of heaped stacks of decayed cars
t hat never made it to the crusher, a restaurant
in the middle of nowhere still in the process of becoming
nowhere. . . .
by Timothy Hedges
He was standing in the aisle practicing Willie Horton’s batting stance, working on his glare out to the imaginary mound . . . . He was picturing the ball floating toward the plate, the invisible pitcher—Catfish Hunter, maybe—holding his breath. Then the bus jerked to a stop, the floor rolled beneath his feet, and Augie spilled forward onto his face.
by Rebecca Hazelton
Boxing ring girls, sans spangles,
they leg in heels from corner to corner,
the culmination of suffragettes
and Betty Friedan, . . .
by Bethany Schultz Hurst
This is a love story: It turned out
the tattooed man and the bearded woman
were just mannequins doctored with Sharpie
and fake hair. What did I expect? . . .
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