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
The antique store hides // a portal to the underworld // behind a wall of maps // of places that don’t exist.
By Chris Corlew
willow-white duck // the blistered // spigot squirts not only for you // but for my irradiated necktie