
Here I am, looking at this copy of a // two hundred-dollar book.

duty pulled a mountain along lesser used roads. // time was ill-spent preparing workers for the crossing.
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My dear trees, I no longer recognize you // The storm puts its mouth to the house

Look upon the simple life tinged by shades of emotions, all // of it a facade to entertain one’s own delusions.

By Ace Boggess
I’ve never walked in driving rain // as she does now, the noise so sudden & // vast as to become its own silence.


I am building a boat in the basement // and there are still so many details to work out.

I opened your bag today. The orange one Mrs. A gave you on your last birthday, the one with the gold buckle you said made you “feel like a senator’s wife.” I don’t know why I was reaching for it.

By Cara Howard
We waited two hours for our turn to pay our respects. Bill and I shifted in a pew at the back of the sanctuary while snapshots from happier days looped on large screens near the altar. Conversations buzzed all around us.

Gold splashes desperate over burning sienna, // The artist is choosing tobacco over bread.

By RL Selden
Molek! Your holy fire consumes // the burning bush speaking these new riddles