Online Exclusives

04.14.21
Poem Called “The Lie” After the Poem by C. K. Williams from Which It Takes Its Last Two Lines
When you think of white do you think of Rembrandt
in darkness          pockmarked     a sieve or a monkfish
Ahead now     ahead then:       ash        scrub pine        shade
and Penny –– then twelve        then my brother’s sole friend  [...]
04.07.21
Seven Poems
To sing’s to field thought’s
failed arrow, then drop it,

as sadness surprises,
as always, then doesn’t,

its record all rumors, bits
of lithic in its meat, [...]
03.31.21
Four Poems
Underneath the electric microscope frass gathered like a word no one could pronounce, or something children left in a cage. Sugar ants were gorging on the corpse of a cicada next to the front door. Soon four golden mounds were theirs, to carry back in their lemony bellies to the queen. I have a box of nine suns set on spikes, a pair of gray bags concealing speakers. I am your teacher, said the teacher, alone in a room. If there is a predicate to this. [...]
03.24.21
3 Photos of Us Laughing in the Public Fauna
A hole in the sky 
is what it looks like. Something that will be replaced 
by color, which is a kind of 
false answer, and yet the only real truth 
in this world. The only “real truth”
by which I mean
forgiving. Fog is made virtually [...]
03.17.21
Red Puncta: Poems
Of the foreground, we will not speak. Look past the blotted figures, the stiff line that parts glaucous air from ground’s teeth. Forfeit faces. Alight instead on the twine that screws hands together. Gelid landscape, chromatics at life’s edge, those pant bottoms burnished to peasant gray.
  [...]
03.10.21
Articulate Body
That death measures out
                                    the immeasurable—sands
            fused to a melted stream,
                                                the minutes
hardening to a glass pane
                        against whose cool
            we lean our heads and watch clouds
                                                            unbutton to rain.
And inked its quake on white. [...]
03.03.21
From The Hölderliniae
The roses never looked so good before we gained a dormant garden
help. But roses burn in just one day of this appalling desert heat. An
effervescent sun burning the roses as I must wish it would inflame all
features of the abhorrent politicians plunging a nation into ruin ... and archaeology! We look in vain for faces from a human past. [...]
02.24.21
Five Poems
Then geese cycle madly
across a pond
like Wile E. Coyote
three feet past the cliff—

catch lift
and join the great migration. [...]
02.17.21
Moving Out
We’re coming home from school, walking up the hill, Marco in front, his head down, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, Laurel behind him, the collar of her shirt spilling out of her sweater like a tropical plant, then Samantha, agitated, as if struggling to free several birds from the snags in her hair, and finally Peter, our little brother, who lags behind us and sings:

           and all the people said
           what a shame that he’s dead [...]
02.10.21
The Deletionists
Lev’s suit was neat and elegant, even when rumpled. In another life he might have been a priest rather than a civil servant and teaching meditation classes once a month at the community center. He had turned forty that year and often talked about retirement when he could dedicate himself to his practice full-time. They had met two years ago, after one of his classes, when Claire had asked him if he believed in reincarnation. She was interested, she said. [...]
02.03.21
Tasseography
It’s the day you get the letter. You get it at work. You leave work and walk to your building and it’s your door and it’s steel and it’s glass and it’s covered with half-smeared fingerprints and through its cloudy pane you see her face (yes, it’s her face, what other face but her face) and she’s holding open the door and she’s looking at you but you can’t look at her so you look at her lips and you think yes, of course, she has no lips, she has slivers, she has lines, she has a crevice, like someone realized they forgot something in her making and took a knife and sliced straight across above her jaw and yes of course her maw is just a black-blooded wound, just a dark slit that opens and gapes, and you’re shocked when it moves (look at it move) and it whispers: you slut. [...]
01.27.21
When Drummers Drum
 
Here we are, then, in a typical Mediterranean village, sometime between the end of the last world war and shortly before the next one begins. There’s no obvious reason to think trouble is imminent. In the eyes of an ordinary tourist, everything looks lovely: the colorful, lopsided buildings packed on hillsides above the sea, the slopes lined with abundant vineyards and olive groves, the flowery vines spilling over fences. How could anyone not be happy here? [...]
01.19.21
Three Poems
. . . a well-perfumed friend, wise both
in the olfactory and in love, taught me
to spray with economy, to wear scent
as a private pleasure, evident only to
a lover in kissing distance.


  [...]
01.11.21
Hex
One’s opportunities to be unhappy are

Unlimited.     Or limited, but only by

One’s own imagination, which is powerful

But fragile, is defenseless,     but is limited

Only by things unseen.     As Bark Psychosis did it [...]
01.04.21
Three Poems
As life encroaches on the dreaming
bedpost, you remember

a chip of ice you found in river
sludge, its sheen a mute witness

to increments of change
as lens and pure belief. [...]

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In Print

Vol. 75
Dispatches from Solitude
Fall 2020
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

April 14, 2021
When you think of white do you think of Rembrandt
in darkness          pockmarked     a sieve or a monkfish
Ahead now     ahead then:       ash        scrub pine        shade
and Penny –– then twelve        then my brother’s sole friend 
April 7, 2021
To sing’s to field thought’s
failed arrow, then drop it,

as sadness surprises,
as always, then doesn’t,

its record all rumors, bits
of lithic in its meat,
March 31, 2021
Underneath the electric microscope frass gathered like a word no one could pronounce, or something children left in a cage. Sugar ants were gorging on the corpse of a cicada next to the front door. Soon four golden mounds were theirs, to carry back in their lemony bellies to the queen. I have a box of nine suns set on spikes, a pair of gray bags concealing speakers. I am your teacher, said the teacher, alone in a room. If there is a predicate to this.
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