
Overboard
after the painting “Jonah” by James Patrick Reid Ready to swallow the fallen, the sea swells. “The waters want me,” Jonah cries, running, running, always running away.
after the painting “Jonah” by James Patrick Reid Ready to swallow the fallen, the sea swells. “The waters want me,” Jonah cries, running, running, always running away.
“Do not step out of this area.” —Words written on the wing the plane From this window seat sweet puffs of white disguise irregular quadrilaterals, webs of
after Lawrence Raab are not like the wee hours,where anything might happen or already has— or the blousy hours of early morning,the sheets taut under
The parlor lies beneath its settled dust.The grand oak table in the dining room,Long stripped of plate, cuillere, and candelabra, Reflects the twilight like a
The sky’s so thick with graynot even the faintest shape of cloud shows through.Somewhere behind, the planes drag their wings alonga current of air. The
In the northwoods, the serene pulse of the lake greetsbuds and pollen falling under pines while bees hum praise from sunrise until dusk in this
I halfway thought the wind would still be in them,but the little coppery chimes were full insteadof spider sacs and dauber mud, gray-redfrom the airs
She was right about this place, the unforgiving winter months sullen, sunless, bitter, but then spring a dream God has and lets us slumber in
Thistles mock all, growing . . .in a heap of broken glass with last year’s soot.—Genevieve Taggard, “American Farm, 1934” In the moments after she
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