Poetry – Year V – Number 37 – June 2020

Matter of Lying Midnight was my worst time for walking so terrifying Two or Three opinions on the matter of lying Modality of the bulimic Her sunshade scented of urine flux Acid smoke light from gun powder patronymic Cakey sand...

The Fig Sonnet She leaned into me. The wind pushed me back. The glare closed my eyes. The bird grasped the limb. The tweet soothed my chills. The rock warmed my heart. The stone felt my hand. The gold cleft the blue. The...

BUTTERNUT I am asked to change even my favorite passwords, in increments, in a base ten system, for the good of the algorithm. My friend and I have been sending one another local news stories,...

Southwest On iron red tipped mountains high, heat and scorched earth cracked in rays, waves brought by arid death— beams shooting through salt flats barren an age ago, cracking the range as Earth splits the crust westward through basin voids—billow...

Corrente alternada, turbulenta ou serena. Na praia, perguntaste ao homem do casaco cinza: Como defines “a vontade”? Com o dedo ele desenhou uma onda senoidal na areia, e depois apagou-a com braçadas a seu alvedrio. Uma dose de...

Two Lovers Meet When his grave crumbled and departed, a bright fresh guest will entertain. He in contentment remain, as the living will leave brokenhearted. Numerous jewels have sparkled, grayish hairs across the bones are plain. There is a path...

Footprints on the horizon. Warm rendition of the deepest valley, far can see the heaven's skies Glazed within a new born dream, and likeness in his eye's Furthermore my heart and soul belong...

Dumb Blonde Was I his? It did take me 50 years To consider the possibility I did always say: “He was my best friend in high school” Not “We were best friends…” I have no idea what he...

HANDS Can pluck a Stradivarius, sculpt a David out of marble, pleasure oneself, or a loving partner, scratch an itch, pick your nose, wipe your ass, write a play, applaud and give a standing ovation, tie a shoelace or...

MALPENES PUXARRA CÓSMICU Por Xe M. Sánchez ¿Pescáncieslo agora, nesti tiempu de peste, d’incertidume, de llerza? Nos, que dexamos les nueses güelgues na...