Prone
Have we turned away from all true openings
poetry
A Lifetime of Lucky Peace
I have watched for them each night since,
What scares you
The stillness of the moth clenched on the morning-
Gutted
The valley unfolds along the river-spine.
Certain Disappearances
There are few nuns these days, fewer cloisters.
The Wife of Pilate
From my husband, I learned a little something of duty,
Monkey Do
The last of our rubles. We stare at our beer, finding truth in its effervescence,
Way Station
Customs, a gutted church. The scuffles of past congregations echo
Fly-by-night
The hours before leave-taking are slow and unwieldy. Sooner or later
Birch
Bitter is the word. Bitter is the meadow I am walking in.
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
