by Stephen Ellis

When will the ravaging
be over? It will

never be over, because
at this point, it is

the absolute condition
of what remains

of life, its total
occupation, a kind of

diversion to myself
of its ultimate aim,

my comfort, and revenge
against the terror

it continues to bring on.
The toxic cells

think they have perhaps
a 92% chance of

overwhelming those
that remain healthy.

The medical professionals
hold my chances of

survival at about 12%.
Of close friends,

there are no absolutes,
which is as it ought to be,

although 72% aren’t
Sure. For my own part,

I have no idea. I just
assume that all of

the above assumptions
are true, and since I can

still hold a pen firmly
enough to write this,

while knowing all disease
cures itself, whether

the patient survives or not,
I could care less.

by Stephen Ellis

Color and light
when I wake, are
my angel, presiding
over craving
to have my own
teats sucked
by the oracle of
prescient death,
not of milk, but
of the equally
natural pain
endured, as how
we manage
love, for this
perpetual ache
is nourishment
shared from
mammal to daemon,
a nursing that
feeds fire
and infection,
the forms of my
personal and now
internal controversy
argued amongst
animal endearments
in which I have
no opinion, but
reverie and finally
nothing but so
simple as pure
Mercy. I imitate
what my body
used to be, and in
those soundings,
the chill that
comes with fever
burns with a bliss
that makes dark,
the love whose
protest against
the death of sexual
need, begins to
set me free.

by Joe Torra

morning star
in chestnut tree
ducks and geese
call from the river
heat exhaust
from chimney tops
a truck speeds off
this oldest new morning

by Joe Torra

Summer’s not yet over —
Morning breeze
Through window green
Branch brushes against —

Birds sing late
Summer songs, they
Consume me

Flesh exposed,
First upper body
Then bottom

I am the river
Illuminated —
Flowing smoothly
On a cool breath
Of a leaf