by Robert Wrigley
The hackberry tree, a static of twigs and branches
so densely woven sparrows went flitless there
and hopped instead, stob to stob, and disappeared
like names, dates, and faces in an ordinary mind.
by Eamon Grennan
Open daisies in the grass, stars in the sky, that half-barrel
and the birds on it, or the silvery steely slate blue skin
of a mackerel: honeycomb of spider lines and diamonds
and inside in close-up, look, royal blue.
by Nick Halpern
Sarah had, three years ago, after a decade of marriage, abandoned Skip. He had not wanted children. Two years ago she’d married Ian Donegan, a man who did want, had always wanted children; last spring she and Ian had had a baby girl named Alice; a week and a half after Alice was born, Ian Donegan had died in a car crash. Skip had, almost immediately, reappeared and tried to persuade Sarah that she should move back in with him—she and the baby girl.
by Maurya Simon
His lifelong passion: to float free of earth,
to rise aloft like a helium balloon, then
to drift languidly across the wide meridians
and seas, . . .
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