By Joseph Long
Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done? Three words which, // if spoken too soon, sears itself upon // my balloon.
By Jia Yan Tan
but if that doesn’t work then call your mother
And yet nothing is as satisfying // as scratching the pen back // and forth over having it all // done and evidenced.
If you move a chair, // the Pharaoh's curse may turn out // to be a fact.
Outside, the morning sun // Is sitting in the sky // Like a cake plate crayoned
I will never forget // how quickly your scooter sped down the hill
By Matt Gulley
a quick search, a type and tap // or a phone-sought friend, at longest last
By Cecil Morris
The embryo that bloomed ectopic in the wife // who left me would be 45 this year and lives // in the cryogenic regions of my brain