by Hailey Leithauser
More than mere spasm
or when focused mind
and game heart combine
as mechanism, . . .
by Naeem Murr
I write fiction, but poetry was my first love. It seduced me into the word. That and a davy, hippieish secondary-school teacher called Mrs. Fowles. This woman dismissed all the so-called great writers, warned us that reading too much would impair our originality, and had us write a poem for each class.
by Caroline Finkelstein
we lived in a hermetic house tiny house claustrophobic endless
we hid ourselves from other worlds we did it so deliberately
up ahead the end is dusty awful I apologize . . .
by Mark Kraushaar
Whatever it is about this poor schmuck
crashing his beater Plymouth into a light pole
then scaling a chain-link fence in socks and no shirt,
cheek bleeding, Mets cap backward
I’m not sure, . . .
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