Robert Walicki: The Ride
I thought my grandmother was a badass
after arm wrestling me for a pack of Swedish fish.
June 9, 2022 · 3 Comments
Robert Walicki: Storm
It’s 40 degrees, and windy enough to lift us
off the edge of the earth, and this hospital roof,
where we drop the heads of metal snakes down stacks,
next to exhaust vents carrying the breath of the dying
March 26, 2020 · 4 Comments
Kristofer Collins: A Poem for Michael Wurster
The only connection I felt to the mills
was to the children of a generation of flayed men
on unemployment, the storefronts boarded…
November 7, 2019 · Leave a comment