Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Late Afternoon Stroll on the Cliffs
We’re fast friends by now. Death much older of course,
but there’s no hierarchy between us: we’re both taking
a break from it all, glad to watch waves collapse on rocks
Jack Wolford: The Resurrection of Jack Wolford
(Being an anonymous manuscript that arrived in the mail)
Mike James: Notes Towards An Informal Elegy
a nurse at her desk said, as i walked past,
your friend is very profane
yes, i said, he cusses creatively
in two languages
Ma Yongbo: On the Farm in the North
It is quiet all around, only the two of us—
no red flags, no father, no yellow military uniforms.
The army seems to have withdrawn,
leaving us there, forgotten.
Lisel Mueller: Place and Time
My life began
with Beethoven and Schubert
on my mother’s grand piano
Delmore Schwartz: By Circumstances Fed
By circumstances fedWhich divide attentionAmong the living and the dead,Under the blooms of the blossoming sun,The gaze which is a tower towersDay and night, hour by hour,Critical of all and … Continue reading
John Lawson: Flowers
A special tragedy, to survive
Almost till spring, when the nearing sun
Might quell dark fear, still
Convulsive shivering.
Barbara Crooker: Things That Can Be Doubled
Team, time, troubles. It’s this,
or nothing. Boiler, barrel, bed, the blind’s
bind that puts us in jeopardy.
Todd Friedman: The World is Filled with Learning
Yes, good and evil are on the table like salt and pepper shakers.
It’s easy to reach for the wrong one.
Donna Hilbert: Two Poems
Fire and ice, ice and fire.
I’m loathe to say much more
of fear, of loss, and of desire.
It’s all been said, or sung, before.
J. Kates: Two Poems
I gave up cigarettes and sex and booze
and anything that might have got me hung.
I’ve grown too old to listen to the blues.
Chana Bloch: Beaux Arts
They knew something about pleasure, too,
those painters—how well they understood
it may be compounded
of the simplest elements, the merest trace
of water or light.
Allen Ginsberg: The Velocity of Money
I’m delighted by the velocity of money as it whistles through the windows of Lower East Side
Jason Irwin: Two Poems
the bejeweled pimp, flashing his Come to Daddy
devil’s grin, at the midwestern girl with stars
in her eyes whose just ridden for over thirty hours,
trying to escape her life
