one poem

one poem
in a quiet room
beneath an indifferent sky

the empty fields that define
the season of loss

these are only words
diane
and you are only a stranger i
pretend to know

it’s the lack of sound
that frightens me

the wind maybe
or a distant siren
or the kitten curled up and purring gently
on the edge of the desk

my son’s toys
without his tiny perfect hands
to move them

and it’s been four days now since
the planes stopped flying

since my fingers felt the need
to crawl across
a blank sheet of paper
and do you notice that the
clocks haven’t stopped?

do you believe

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CHRISTINE HAMM

To Greenpoint

July insects buzz the sidewalk.
It’s twenty minutes of rectangular and bleak to anywhere.

See the cracks,
the lines crisscrossing
the telephone poles, the concrete
and your hand,
this street disappears into empties —
beer cans and sky.

You’re walking through airless shadows.
Your shoes don’t make a sound.
And we have no idea where we’re going.

Empty Bed

The muscles of my tongue cup him.

Broken backed chairs lean forward expectantly
and the rug curls in anticipation.
No one can close their eyes but him.

Then moonlight does what moonlight does,

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J. D. SMITH

Allegory of X

Being chased toward
a cliff in the night
that divides land
from the absence of land
with no warning save
the gravel that tumbles
away from itself.

Internet

Gleaming water-skimmers race,
stop, start, collide and multiply,
converge–instant constellations–and disperse
over a widening puddle.

A River

The current takes
lull and rapids
into a circle
with no tangent
at stream or sea.
Soil from the banks
is gathered,
sold in pouches
for its powers,
among them
shaping waters
and, in spring,
reversing their course.

Further Shores
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