Summer 1991 Edition Selections
by Alexander Thorburn
The bottling plant is a monastery
behind our church.
Over its wall, we watch
with our town’s mechanic
the bottles scrubbed, filled and capped, . . .
by Michael Waters
During lovemaking he fell asleep, one moment
mindless, churning like a propeller,
the next fallen away like a corpse tossed over
the lip of a scow into a spoiled estuary.
by William Matthews
First they take it away,
for now it belongs to the state.
Then they open it
to see what may have killed it,
and it had arteriosclerosis
in its heart, for this was an inside job.
by William Hoffman
At Julia’s shriek, I deduced the trouble to be a basement pipe and smiled. We had been undergoing onslaughts of plumbing troubles. I did not hurriedly descend steps from my chapel to the lower floors and then the basement where bathrobed Julia stood pressing hands over her ears as if that would stanch water arching and splashing onto the concrete floor.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections