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Letter to Francisco

by Mark Ramirez

I wonder what it feels like to die; to feel the rhythm of your body / fall to rest as you watch your final breath dissipate, / to speak only through dreams and the grainy film of memory.

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Weeding

by Art Nahill

Kneeling amidst / the camellias, roses / culling the self / sown from the cultivated / the disdained / from the highly-regarded / I’m reminded / how circumstance / defines us

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Red Apple

by Rustin Larson

I soak my sleeve in water just to foul things up a bit, / Create a small level of misery, to keep the defense / Honest.

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Five Poems

by Simon Perchik

Though it’s familiar this flower / doesn’t recognize the breeze / wriggling out the ground / as that distance without any footsteps

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Precision

by Carol Hamilton

Scarlatti’s sheet music lies / on the floor near the piano / and a catalog for later perusal / is sprawled in full color / near the computer.

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Death Poems

by Laura Madeline Wiseman

I don’t know why death wants me or why death wakes me to press her bones against my backside. The ringing is incessant now. She has to know this.

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Eyes of the Day

by Tim Craven

I recall as kids when our obsession would / lead us into the thick backwoods / next to the decommissioned railway / line, our pockets stuffed with ribbons

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Nightfall

by Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
translated by Jacqueline Michaud

The sun slept this evening in clouds of mounting gray / Tomorrow will bring the storm, and evening, and night

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Waves

by William Ogden Haynes

That bowl, whose waves long ago gently caressed / the scent of Sunday dinners, finally washed up / in the swampy cul-de-sac of my kitchen counter.

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Lilac

by Alexis Misko

I feel the kind of sticky / I should feel if this were Georgia, / if I were in an Alice Walker novel / with a fist full of blackberries / staining my southern grin.

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