Susan C. Waters Spoon-fashion we dip like buoys in the lake of our dreams Your steady breath spirits the sail of fantasy’s ship & your flesh warms the insufferable cold journey into the past When we sleep we must dream each other’s dreams. Waking, I feel the sleep drain from your body, & upon…
Susan C. Waters Beads of rain cling to slender, dark branches In the calm they reflect the white, tinted gray, of the sky Delicate silent they are like so many days in the onrush of time Tenaciously they resist gravity & become …
Susan C. Waters The telephone lines are silver threads in the web of this night Trembling they shimmer in the waterfall of uncoming lights & a lone street lamp which illuminates the path to the past, to fields filled with early winter Shimmering shimmering they tremble against the sky they rush toward cities I…
George Mosby, Jr. like a petal caught flush against a light gush of breeze a bold-black hawk swoops close picking a wounded sparrow from the ground then up in perfect vertical flight she leans into the wind and then she smooths out —an arrow of freedom heading into the horizon with my mind…
Bob Pielke For over two years now I have had in my possession the following taped interview, here transcribed for the first time. I would like to say that it was my disbelief which has prevented me from releasing it earlier, but this would be deceiving myself. I know better. In reality, it was…
Candace Black for mary-ellen Remember the first one? The watery green, deer gliding through rushes. We were young as that valley and now, miles later, I can tell you these things aren’t common— I am being whittled here by something more than mountains. I think lines on maps have nothing to do with this….
Lynna Williams I can’t see it myself. The way I am, it’s over when it’s over. I don’t overstay, and I don’t look back. Take when Karen left. She walked out of the house just before noon on Sunday, September 5, and by 1:30 p.m. I had the bedroom walls painted and a new…
Roberta Gupta “I am one of the clowns of modern fiction,” says novelist Raymond Federman. He shrugs his shoulders in exaggerated despair. “That’s what many people think! They refer to me as an experimental writer. That means I don’t know what I’m doing, eh?” Federman, a native-born Frenchman now living in America, is professor…
George Mosby, Jr. you knew what it was three miles off tearing through the curves of old 623 straightening them out like curly string hardly a foot of the whole six miles the road ran hadn’t tasted the smoking rubber it peeled and left like pairs of long black snakes stretching from curve to…
George Mosby, Jr. if you chose to come near when the moon was full as a new quarter is round you would find him out with his rifle or with his old double-barrel 12-gauge rabbit-ears shotgun blasting away into the pinlights in the sky but even if you chose to stay away you could…
