Fat in the Can
by Liz DolanOn the shady back porch of his summer home,
Uncle Dan, even and easy like my mother,
constructs a lamp from wooden matchsticks.
Calls me Crisco.
Categories:
Late Summer
by Christine CavalierI can't call you: it rained.
you, far off deep dearth space
my voice trailing
left in the birdless wire
washed through and leaking onto them
onto the honeysuckled road
where the freckle-braided girl drips
her sweet hummingbird water
onto the backfence-met boy.
Categories:
Nocturne: on the first day of standard time
by Deborah BurnhamA poem about the night should offer
solace at the end, and, on the way, a list
of images the dark assembles
for our pleasure
Categories:
