Robert Nisbet Rural Hillside There arrives, over an iron bridge, the rush of a train, its lights shuddering slightly, but surging with the vehemence of brilliant things. Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet whose work appears in roughly equal measures in Britain and the USA.
Read MoreJ. R. Solonche The Pine Two-by-Four The pine two-by-four, now newly sawn exactly by the carpenter, smells exactly like a newborn. J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines since the ’70s and is the author of six poetry collections.
Read MoreAlessandra Davy-Falconi better left unsaid I think people can love, but it’s like pressing a flower and missing the time when it breathed. Alessandra Davy-Falconi is a dragon preparing to set herself free.
Read MoreMoss Ingram Icy Dawn Tires slid, and a guardrail caved, while orphans slept. Moss Ingram enjoys reading and writing work that requires taut constraints, as well as teaching this appreciation and practice at Grand Rapids Community College.
Read MoreH. Edgar Hix Wilderness for HLH and shared vision So still I can hear the deer munch; so loud I hear the autumn sky falling. H. Edgar Hix is, therefore he thinks.
Read MoreH. Edgar Hix Old Woman with a Walker She wears her life like she wears her lipstick: broad, too bright, and of her own volition. H. Edgar Hix is, therefore he thinks.
Read MoreDevon Balwit How like Banksy, God is, our hidden telomeres programmed to shred just when we become sure of our worth, our readiness for a climate- controlled museum cabinet, for an encomium- laden retrospective, gavel banging down on a million-four, our loved-ones gaping at our disintegration. Devon Balwit wouldn’t mind being the Banksy of verse.
Read MoreHowie Good The Colonel of the Dead after flexing his cramped fingers, records your name in black ink on black paper, then lies back with a weary sigh on a sun chair, pink high tops crossed at the ankles. Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government.
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