by Donald Hall
As the second summer of her death approached him,
goldfinches flew at her feeder like daffodils
with wings and he could no longer tell her so.
Her absence could no longer be written to.
by Matthew Harman
I don’t think I’m delirious, certainly, though it is difficult to see. Your eyes burn from the haze and dust and your own sweat if they are kept open too long. The heat is killing people and animals. We saw an old woman lying on the street in New Delhi, her dark body cooking anonymously at our feet. We had just arrived, hadn’t slept for two days, airport to airport.
by Kevin Stein
No, not the actual instant, days delayed,
the cord unplugged, all the possible perils
of the possible soul—not that. I’ve in mind
his boozeless Valentine’s dinner with Dutchie
the long–suffering, imperturbable wife.
by Peter M. Ives
Although there must be two hundred people in the store on this Friday night, I notice that the checkout line is empty. A crowd has begun to gather for the live entertainment in the coffee bar, Starbuck’s Café, a literary name for those who remember George Starbuck, poet and teacher from Iowa, contemporary of Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, and Jack Kerouac, though not at all like them.
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