by Eric Pankey
The crow, the gleaming crow,
Withholds its one thorny note,
A note that can rip a seam
Through the mildewed canvas of dusk.
by Charles Wright
First, two assumptions: one, a life is not a story; two, the poet’s “life” consists of only those things that are not good enough to go into his poems. Thus, part of a life is not part of a story, and the parts that I have been able to pick up and brush off here either are not poem-worthy or were overlooked by the searchlight I have stabbed from time to time into earlier areas of my life.
by Michael Hollister
Up in the mountains of the Umatilla reservation, Charlie Rimbeau got word that Tom Feroz had to see him right away. Billy Wild Horse and his brothers gave him a ride down the mountain in their pickup; he sat in the back with his pack between his legs, gazing out over the fields on the high plateau below, trying to imagine how it looked as grassy open space and grazing herds of antelope.
by Deborah Tall
The dead are taking over my address book,
their phone numbers ringing off the hook
into thin air—air: what God is made of
says my daughter . . .
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