Home of new, established, and interesting poetic voices.
Waiting rooms At stations Begging for us to pause
Bathe in that city of yours In its eternal darkness, and rotted fruit vines The juice, or blood, draining itself out of you…
a woman walks down the street the day hot, the day long, 6pm, and full of rush
I am nobody. Walking through the false tears of sand,
I can get you a free quote today,/ Not right now, but I’ve been known to make them,/Stick around and you’ll hear or
After breaking bread together,/ men gather where we have for decades.
It is the madeleine that gives him away./ Well, that and the silk cravat/ pinned like a butterfly to his stiff white collar.
ladder drapes bruised, scarred, and charred,
There is a strange beauty in the slow loss of sight, for there is a progressive
Jane Austen and Jane Kenyon call to me from my shelves. I muse on an ordered life where people