The mills locked their doors and I thought I heard voices.
I had already been weeping quietly.
A man sweating and stoking,
the yellow hulk of Cats winding bay front chip yards—
we were the fragrance of the idea of the meaning of not. We didn’t want destruction.
Meanwhile, the sunlight off broken glass is everywhere.
Gabrielle Calvocoressi | Late Twentieth Century in the Form of Litany
Patrick Donnelly | Prayer at the Opera
Anthony Walton | Third Shift
Michael McGriff | Coos Bay
Adrian Blevins | Why the Marriage Failed
Oliver de la Paz | Hello,