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E.V. Noechel

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

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Baily Cohen

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

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Martin Willitts Jr.

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.

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A. R. Ammons

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

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