Bill Neumire It’s not a science, this still-cooling story: Nora was a woman who became a couch. Tim, defeated, clipped the fringe from her ankles and wore it as a laurel, artlessly microfiber, though blessed with a middle-class honesty. Why does anyone lose who they are? The atmosphere, it gets heavier until it congeals into a voice, a face, a tremulous shake of will. Call it a symptom of overcrowding. She loved him or he loved her too...

Leonard Gontarek Mouthing the wind that falls into the trees and behind the trees. So good to be home. Clouds break up like small planes. The cardinals and bluebirds at home. My feet up on God’s coffee table, setting down my drink without a cocktail napkin. What Gontarek would do. Grandmother in her wedding gown, softly: You are such an angel. Moths going for the light like a dessert table. Leonard Gontarek is the author of St....