Crooked Creek Rail Bridge

And then it turns cold, fall, the sky full of upside-down ships, and wind, the grass turning a bright but pale shade of green, sunlight between stark clouds, no more yellow of daffodils, some window plastic flutters, it’s coming, the wonderful specter of pothole-filled roads, a warm car, gloved hands on a steering wheel, tires… More

Mindfulness

My guts gurgle under my hand; yes, a place to hide, yes . . . When the sun sets in the west, the river shines all the way across. News travels: a clown, a man whose job was kids’ parties, shoots himself at his ex-wife’s house. It’s summer, too hot, all the parking lots and… More

Suburban Metamorphosis

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… More

Flotsam

Bill Neumire I am a left shoe, no laces, on the Maine coast; a kingfisher somehow owes me its life. I didn’t choose this sea’s flagrant shift from green to blue. I didn’t choose rogue waves or the clot of storms. Why then the ballistics of love, the freckle, the artistic hips? On Tuesday there… More

Ritual

Guillermo Filice Castro into a hole something      of the self always disappears light    mother tongue into mouths and this morning that bunch of hairs peeled off the drain and dropped into the toilet almost as mournful       a gesture as a wreath laid in the ocean Guillermo Filice Castro’s work… More