P. Ivan Young I hear the knocking of their hooves, watch the wood splinter, needle the sun shafts that pierce my dark. Who wouldn’t challenge the boldness of young goats crossing to greener pastures as if this were some right? I knew their deception would end badly for me. But because they were trying something new, I let them through without pointing out how obvious they had been. I don’t eat goat, but conflict was a way...

Ruth Foley Suddenly, the leaves cannot keep silent. They snap like brittle fingers under torture. They slice the air and leave it gasping, open. At first, they say, you are too surprised to feel pain. I think the air must be like that today, stunned into speechlessness by the violent turning of what once seemed innocuous. And I know where the cold snap gets its name. The smallest branches know it too, as their leaves grow unbearable...

Mara Michael Jebsen i’m starting to be startled       by the way time passes it seems to fall out              like clumps of hair its November         the Hudson river’s all gooseflesh and silver the history books sing of trains, souls boarding and riding       till the end of the line         i dream California lemons        oranges             ...

Simon Perchik Again this shrub each Spring stirred by the same passion its leaves never forgot –one heart safely dead center the other rash brushes against your shoulder and goes one from there –they sense this...

In an intimate interview, the prolific American poet discusses process, politics, and his acclaimed new collection, Beautiful Country.

Tara Deal The drip from the ceiling, a small thing, stain in the evening, not worth fixing, even, almost not worth mentioning now that some love has gone a little brown around the edges like a rusty wrought iron gate from one of the old hotels when those were the days, with sparkling fountains in the courtyard under cobalt arches before something like an ocean got carried away and how the sound, it travels, rushing into the thickset...

Tara Deal The most beautiful words in California: woodsmoke, coastal fog, lavender flowers along the sidewalk, coffee and sage burning at the margins, impossible to determine where in the white cool air like milk beginning to turn. Tara Deal is a writer and editor living in New York City. Her poetry has appeared in failbetter, Flyway, nthposition and West Branch, among others. She is the author of the poetry chapbook, Wander Luster...

Robert Wrigley Next door the old pipe organ no longer wheezes. Here, the new one’s electric and hums. Here, too, upholstered pews, a last-twice-as-long-as-Jesus miracle fabric called Herculon over foam the bums of bums will appreciate. And me, sixteen, sneaking out, faking a coughing spell and bound for the old church next door, alone, but only for a while, I hope. The girl I’m meeting there is named Babette, known as Butch. Every...

John McCaffrey I bought a bottle of beer and sat next to a woman I found attractive at the bar. She was alone and reading a book. I finished the beer and introduced myself. She told me her name was Meg. She was reading The Sun Also Rises and I asked her what she thought of Hemingway. Meg took a sip of her own beer and said Hemingway was good but not as good as Fitzgerald. I joked whether she meant “Ella,” and bought us both beers...

Ian Ganassi You can only go so far on anybody’s guess. Your guess and mine are as good as it gets. The dark corners that want to take over the world Are lurking where we put them. No getting around the truth In your deck of lies. If you thought you were a fortune teller It wouldn’t be a big surprise. Will the real nobody please stand up? It’s no bargain let me tell you, Though it’s dressed like one. A feverish attempt to get...