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Index: Poetry & Fiction

Hautes Études and Mudra.

Michael Londra: ‘Heart rate near zero,
doctors saying she could
no longer hear, no longer respond,
I panicked, said it all in a rush.’

On Learning a Poet I Admire Often Carries a Pocket Knife.

David Greenspan: ‘Oh root, oh rot, we petition

continuous point mapping, don’t
name it graph, equation of
solitude.’

Seven short poems.

Lucian Staiano-Daniels: ‘and went down to the sea in ships the lightcreating air
untarnished’

5 x 7.

John Matthias: ‘Feel the
Fetters Oh man of letters.
Yield to the testy awkwardness
You care not to confess.’

You Haven’t Understood.

Amy Glynn: ‘They say
nature is not schizophrenic, meaning the sigh
of the surf, and the ice-gleam and what you’re exhaling, it’s

the same thing.’

Long Live the King.

Eliot Cardinaux: ‘At the end of my biography
the goats were yelling

up a wholesome pitch’

Four Poems on Affairs of State.

Peter Robinson: ‘That Haunted House across the park
with name in red graffiti letters
on tromp-l’oeil weatherboarding is
so very much the worse for wear…’

Among the Enlighteners.

Tom Phillips: ‘Where we look is a decision, not seeing things entire.’

Bare trees.

Cole Swensen: ‘Shade also quenches thirst, which has to do with a darkness that absorbs regret, running over your skin in thin sheets of crow dissolved in equal parts rain and gusting wind.’

Four poems from ‘La luce immutabile’.

Flavio Ferraro: ‘I know, there is greater glory
than a stalk, and greater
mysteries the forest conceals
than this maiden acorn.’

The Course of Empire: Reloaded.

Kornelia Koepsell: ‘Oppressors, tyrants, butchers on the stair,
ascending thrones and bawling: I am God,
which no one had the courage to declare
before, and everyone proclaims: I’m polyglot.’

Shostakovich, Eliot and Sunday Morning.

E.B. Smith, jr.: ‘The poet’s friend
crosses the room
with the limping tread’

Axiom.

Peter McCarey: ‘So when you see that filament heat the lamp,
The a-machine says one. Otherwise it’s signifying Nothing.’

Catherine.

Lucian Staiano-Daniels: ‘The fiddle and shawms go round and they shuffle and tap, the soldiers. Eyes shut turn on turn. His bridle is silver, his saddle is gold, the value of his harness has never been told. Their bare feet slap the dust.’

From ‘Emily Dickinson’s Lexicon’.

Katie Lehman: ‘After the afternoon fell and an evening beam
trod across her rose papered wall, her
blush plum paisley stole.’