Latest Writing
POETRY
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PEOPLE OF NEW YORK by Sally Ball
I know you are dying as always, even you big ones from Queens, or from Nyack, and I’m in the habit of checking the clock, midnight again. Again no phone call, no lungs expanding and contracting
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LETTER TO PHIL FROM MANITOU SPRINGS by George Kalamaras
Did Darwin name the world, or did you, Phil, in creating him for us? I swear a Galápagos tortoise inhabits my sleep. A dream broth. A cup of Genmaicha tea containing roasted grains of brown rice. It lays its eggs across the coral reef of my brain. Blonde. Blind. Without fish-mouth or salt.
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LIE DOWN WHERE THEIR FACES ARE by James Allen Hall
The woman across the street on her knees again, shut out in the snow by her husband. Every week, this ritual: a man, a crying woman, the blue cold earth that marries them. When he lets her in, she lays in bed next to him.
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