Leaving You remember most the empty house,how it centres to your point of view,and looking back you see its shape,the cresting roof, the attic glass that brokethere once and fell away, and dimly,still, the rows of sleepers withempty rails, which led you somewhere,you suppose, though nowhere you could name. Now and then the place returns to youlike this: the dazzled porch, the empty field,the bedroom windows staring back throughdarkened shades, and where the ridgelinegutters down, a finial still rises up to pinthe sky, as if to make it yield.   Epitaph My father never gave adviceand often he would say to me,remember not to let your housegrow higher than the…

Trespass Western Lake, WA In secret I climbed down to the tweaker’s habitat to the owner’s absence or oblivion. In the pea green doublewide a pit bull barked and whirled, scratched and whined, trash-eating scourge of the lakeside neighborhood—though the lake is gone now. The abandoned, sallow watchdog couldn’t watch me through the green pitted door, but could he smell, could he scent me in the wild hedges? Is that what made him scratch and whinny and bark bark bark? Could he tell of the branches nobody owns, the greenery and brambles with their teeth? Shiny with hunger, with greed and without black art I tore through the blood sisterhood…

Sketching I like the idea of you,those lines I penciled in,the shading of your eyes,the curve of your cheeks,just a bit too gaunt,the subtle angled jauntof your adobe red beret;I like the shading,the slight blurring of charcoalthat gifted youa devil-may-care grin;I want to meet you,to brush back the bangsI swept across your foreheadand plant a kiss on the tipof your Romanesque nose.   Fade to Black Languish is so close to anguish,is it not? The way the two lieside-by-side:a wasting away,the way my face contortsin a concerted effort to hold back tears,the way your hair comes out in clumpsand coats the inside of the shower,the way I wipe it away…

Cosmic Puzzle Maybe this is HeavenMaybe this is HellI go back and forth   Robert Estes, who lives in Somerville, Massachusetts, got his PhD in Physics at UC Berkeley and had some interesting times using physics, notably on a couple of US-Italian Space Shuttle missions. Since then, his poems have appeared in 20-odd publications, including Cola Literary Review, The Moth, Gargoyle Magazine, the museum of americana, Blue Unicorn, Tipton Poetry Journal, Alba: A Journal of Short Poetry, Sierra Nevada Review, and the anthology Moving Images: Poetry Inspired by Cinema.

Pathological silence like a weapon grippedlong after the allegedcrime as if a crow barmetal heft and menaceabsorbs the darkness as youlisten for the realand imagined dangerof the next word   Mark Jackley’s poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, Natural Bridge, and other journals. His most recent book of poetry, Many Suns Will Rise, was published in 2022 by Main Street Rag. He lives in northwestern Virginia.

Diminished Things A diminished seventh chord hangs in the air.The beloved old dog paces in darkness and silence. On the high plains the sun-bleached skull of an elk.In a pueblo the collapsed adobe wall of a house. Old shipwrecks sail a dry lakebed.Ashes of burned forests ride the wind. Flocks of migrating birds fall dead from the sky.A bottle of wine kept corked for years turns sour. I’ve entered the time of diminished expectations,elusive proper nouns, inaudible treble notes. The print fades in my treasured books,pages yellowed and brittle. Venice subsides in rising seas.Notre Dame, charred, still stands.   Lois Levinson is the author of a poetry collection, Before It…

A Knock at Midnight Rain falling, a winter storm.The dog brought in,for the night, for the year. Song competition on,too many years to count now. Some noodles, udon,for after the first two yearstrying to find why yourhands hived, no longer soba. It is all silly. New yearis something set in sand,written on water. But we agree to this demarcation. We made it. We wanthope and possibility welcomedlike an old friend comingto visit at an appointed hour. What will they bring with them?   Joseph Buck is Southern Californian. He is the former editor of the journal of the Pacific Rim, Boomtown, which still gets citations to this day despite being…

Poem that Wants to Inflict Harm after Jordan Smith, “Poem after Peire Vidal” See how these hands warm and open.You just have to think of me. I don’t know the differencebetween light and warmth, nor why it matters. By light I meanyour eyes, the way I dissolved. By eyes I mean yes. You lovedme for that. Fire is unreasonable the way it spreads itself aroundselfishly. Flame is a state of body too. You were once the stars to me,mostly unseen, far away, a glow from another time. I was unafraidof your danger, it stuns me to think of it. I only knew to not look directlyat your eclipse, to glance…

We Used to Have Storms We used to have lightning that blinded the eye We used to have dragons The train urges through graffiti dream fields I want to come of age she says and fly Through the stars the rail yards the sandpiles No more punishment no more reward We used to have cyclones that upturned mountains I watched a blaze race itself up the hillside stopping traffic Nor will I lead nor will I follow To observe without judgment is a high form intelligence We used to have fires that burned for years.   Cosmology Worried notes, a jarred chord progression, January warmer than expected. I unbutton my…