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By Natasha Oladokun Poetry

——1 Samuel 3:1   1. these days it seems one can only know ——-what God is not & ——-not what God is fully as though fullness is printed ——-plainly in plain sight & written in the body these days it seems the price for the divine ——-is one we cannot pay ——-though we never could…

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By Benjamin Myers Poetry

Heaven is a field I am driving an old truck across in the only dream I have on the subject. The sky over that pasture is so blue I know it will burst if it doesn’t turn twenty different reds at evening. The truck is my granddad’s ’72 Ford, still smelling of oilfield and aftershave.…

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Yes, a nameless quietness…

By Ionatan Pirosca Poetry

Yes, a nameless quietness fills the frontiers within which my disgrace cries out. Maybe that’s why I tell my name to it when I wish no more we were together or when I tire of bearing myself. With my own hands maybe I’ll gather what’s left of the shiver of the aspen tree every evening.…

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Canticle of the Penitent Magdalene

By Jennifer Atkinson Poetry

Even so the peaches are ripe, their pelts cat’s tongue to my touch. Even so the fierce poppies tremble. Even so every night a dense blue like cold stones in my mouth. Even so death rides the air, flitting and veering like bats, brushing my outstretched arms, in passing. Even so I dreamed the dream…

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She Waits

By Dan Bellm Poetry

———-Looked for her in the unseen—in the play of air ———-against the edge of ———-what appeared to be— a child’s laugh in a neighbor ———-yard could recall her, ———-only to call her back into what had passed—sought ———-her in dreams, but she ———-waited at one side in the not to be dreamed of ———-yet, neither…

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By Richard Spilman Poetry

Go then into the spare light of dawn, Into the sparkling rime, from the long dream Of yes and no, stand still as the falcon passes Close behind and then in a rush of feathers Embraces the crooked pole and its power line; Go, believing in some destination, onto the shore Where destination founders, where…

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Into the Chambres of Dora Maar

By Allison Funk Poetry

His voice nearly gone _________________(add enough water and pigment thins) she’s listening to the plainsong of doves in the garden, ______________________their__ you__ you __you calling her slowly back to herself until she’s jarred by laughter coming from ______________________________who is it below her window facing the avenue du Général Baron Robert? Footsteps. Three knocks at the…

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In a Dream William Stafford Visits Me

By Todd Davis Poetry

He is walking across a field of wheat in Kansas, grain as tall as his shoulder and as tan as his face. He is cupping his hands to his mouth, shouting words the wind steals and throws into the air like chaff. I need to know what he’s said and begin chasing his voice as…

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