Wes's Pet Pig, Mr. Coffee Pot, Bomb with HorseBy Jean McLarney  The timeline of this dream is unclear.
At some point, Paul Fagan, my friend and an editor of an Irish studies journal, is asking me to look at a particular source, some Italian novel. I don’t know.
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Curry Turkey at the Gas Station, Tom By Jean McLarney  Tom and I are walking down Yonge St, talking. That much I’m sure about. Dreams are weird.
etiquetteBy Donald E. Gasperson  may memory make whole,
as if rounded by the thumb, a comfort at the marrow. a rose crayonBy Donald E. Gasperson  in a world of empty words
a credible name develops tabula rosa angels A Nighttime Drive to Nowhere
By Greyson Ferguson
I pulled into the isolated gas station. Its fluttering canvas fluorescents a lighthouse beacon against the cloudy desert night. Saddling up to a pump, I let the aged engine die before half-opening the door, stopping just before the groan of dry hinges called out. Any noise I made would carry for miles in the open expanse. Sound waves let free to roam like a dog off its leash. But I gently pushed the white door of my ancient Ford pickup close. I didn’t want to make a noise. I didn’t want to wake her.
Poem for Katie, Queen of Ohio #21 I have taken your sonogram pictures
& made a mural out of them. The GrandfatherBy Gabriela Seguesse Freitas  The wind whispered through the dark, empty trees like a warning in a foreign language. Winter was already here, and with winter came the monsters that hid under the bed.
Abigail did not like winter. She was not allowed to go outside and play with her friends, so she had to spend her days locked inside the house. She hated the house even more than she hated winter. It was always dark and musty, as the house was small and did not have many windows. The lack of a working furnace made her bones and teeth ache all day long as she tried to contain the shivers that ran through her body. Cornered A hapless mouse
has set up housekeeping in the kitchen flour bin. Phantom Pains When I awake in the night,
bent, broken, doubled over in pain, Philosopher Queen (To Marge Piercy and Plato)
When you cease to touch me and then wither, dissolve into the earth, I find: there is a fire burnt |