I don’t remember words, conversations or where we’d go, if we went anywhere. I do recall your missing smile and imagine that it is still on the loose. You may never find it, though I have suspicions you are keeping it bound in a box behind the sofa […] Maybe you even look at it,… Continue reading E.V. Noechel
I’ve never wanted more than to be a ghost and reach through your chest and grab the shatterable thing, only to forget what I cannot touch. Like so many sharp things, I know I couldn’t stand to watch myself disappear into you. — Baily Cohen, from “Have I Ever Been Wicked?” The Boiler (no. 29,… Continue reading Baily Cohen
Time does not stand still; it is writing itself into the leaves how fatal life can be. Fog is burning. The fields are evolving as light arrives in a slow assured way. Like a passing rain, light arrives! And it is not any more beautiful one day than another; it just seems that way, narrowing… Continue reading Martin Willitts Jr.
Always she dims again beneath black water as mornings wrest you from sleep like a breech foaltorn loose, shivering in the hay. — William Wright, from “Equus,” Shenandoah (Vol. 61, No. 1, Fall 2011)
I can’t tell you where a poem comes from, what it is, or what it is for: nor can any other. The reason I can’t tell you is that the purpose of a poem is to go past telling, to be recognized by burning. — A. R. Ammons, “A Poem is a Walk,” Temple Poetry.… Continue reading A. R. Ammons
Trees talk to each other at night. All fish are named either Lorna or Jack. Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose. Tiny bears live in drain pipes. If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky. The moon and the sun… Continue reading Raul Gutierrez
What would grace feel like, finally? Like the air around a wondrous sentence spoken into the dark as you wait for another sentence to follow? — Holly Welker, from “Sentence,” Image: Art, Faith, Mystery (no. 64, Winter 2009-2010)