by Amie Sharp
The yard looks still. / Winds riffle green-coin / leaves, slim white-preened bark.
by Lauren Hall
Mrs. Norris begins the afterlife in room 3B, the wheels of an empty suitcase skittering behind her. She takes her crossword puzzle to a café and bides her time.
by Simon Perchik
Though it’s familiar this flower / doesn’t recognize the breeze / wriggling out the ground / as that distance without any footsteps
by Brian Glaser
The flowers are everywhere, pungent and bright. / It could be autumn, eighteen-fifty-seven.
by Janna Vought
It began / with the Stain. / The Stain, my Stain / red on a white bedspread / covered with bristles / of nylon thread.
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.
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.
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
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
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.