Colin Will

      The pencil tree I want a pencil tree, its black heart writing words of wind and rain, winter stillness and summer flourish. I want a pencil tree, but not that one. That one has the pimples of illness all over its grey hide, ready to burst and...

Peter Daniels

      A Glory   Soft headed, out there through the mist, the sun nothing but a sense of light. No time, no place. The vapour carries it all. It’s enough.   Given the time gracefully, the vision holds clear through to the centre of the earth:...

Gram Joel Davies

      The Use of Me Turn me in with turning leaves, with squirrels, tend me seldom as some feral plot. Watch me like a model in my polka dot apparel, let me be my foibles and my fops. Place me in among the lathes and potters wheels, plant me with the...

William Doreski

      Cuddled in the Bus Station Cuddled in the bus station in our old wool coats we agree that the wobble in the axis of our favorite planet corresponds to the wobble in those organs outer layers barely conceal. Snow hustles the lyrical streets. Buses...

Ariel Dawn

      Birds Are Prayers: I Never Told Him These attic windows are old and high, heart-stained to seduce the sun down. While I sleep, someone pull the bleeding thing through the morning forest where we kissed. Bury it there. He’ll find it like dead...