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OWL BY SHERLAND PETERSON

Somebody once said graveyards are filled with indispensible men—the same is true for indispensible women. I was indispensible once but that was when women in trouble came to me with coat hangers. Yes, in my own mind I was...

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BAD NEWS BY GLENN PAPE

Breathing in, you can’t go deep enough. If you drilled through the ocean, through the sandy bottom, through the liquid rock at the core of the Earth, it wouldn’t be deep enough. Breathing out, you can’t spread wide enough. You...

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LOVE BY GLENN PAPE

There’s not a person here, ourselves included, who has any idea of how to proceed. There are no steps that guarantee our children won’t be Nazis or buffoons. A careful diet and regular exercise won’t preserve a body dragged...

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THIS BY BRUCE TAYLOR

I found this in the pocket of the pants I had planned to wear dancing with you, but walked instead all night in the rain, woke up hung-over with a fistful of matchbooks from bars I’ve never been, but no cigarettes, and no last...

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LOVERS SOMETIMES WAIT BRUCE TAYLOR

for what seems like forever, sometimes they don’t wait to take off their shoes. A phone booth’s a grotto, a dark park bench the anteroom to the Cave of Lights or Juliet’s tomb. Smoking endless cigarettes together or alone they...

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ON TIME BY BRUCE TAYLOR

The Autumn when you thought you wouldn’t last the winter, and Springs when you saw no end in sight. Doves cooing as it showers. Summer robins squabbling in the evening’s green unrest. The honeysuckle’s mute luster going more...

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ANOTHER STORM WARNING BY BRUCE TAYLOR

Four in just as many days. The sirens go unheeded if not unheard. Life in the cellar or life all blown about, life not lived so much as merely lived through. The old cat clawing at the ragged screen...

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UPRIVER BY BRUCE TAYLOR

The news as we know it here comes from upriver, the slag of it on Spring high tides, the dreck of it, slow as a September river often is. What whirled and eddied yesterday, what the storm brought with it, what was worn and...

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MY FOOLISH HEART BY GREG MOGLIA

The boy – 7 – walks by the Brooklyn luncheonette and the jukebox plays The night is like a lovely tune beware my foolish heart With the years the melody returns And always out of nowhere A love affair begins and...

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THE EVENING WAITS BY GREG MOGLIA

I switch off the ballgame at it’s turning point Move to the comedy of Saturday Night Live Let the game end without me There’s too much life there When I turn back, if my team has won There is no joy, only relief Should my team...

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THE MOST PRIVATE OF MAPS BY KIMMO ROSENTHAL

“The countries we long for occupy a far larger place in our actual life, at any given moment, than the ordinary country we happen to be in.” Marcel Proust He was embarking on a journey to a faraway place, an undiscoverable...

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AS RECOLLECTING WANES, BY D. R. JAMES

I’m carving out an effigy of Forgetfulness grasping mangled ledgers of memory. Look how it shuffles screens, kinks files: larceny of channeled retention from unmuscled thresholds and honed lingo. Its intrusions inhabit the...

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