By Gerald McCarthy

There are so many
things
I forgot to do —
it’s too late,
my shadow is gone
the wind stops
over the open field
the light.

By Stoel Burrowes

Stick in the mud that grows
Thirsty
Driving a stake into this un–kilned clay
taking the form of mud
Thrown
to sleep all day and then dance at sundown
there is a wetness and a dryness and I need both

but this bulletproof shell leaks
time
What are you keeping out
or in
to sleep only part of each day and let the heat of the sun
bake and draw out the moistened confusion that sleep
leaves in your eyes
thick but fragile

Now driving, now fatigue
is spreading into my hands
I have never been there like this
In this bakeble form this breakable form

Or is this the same feeling, now
Which came first
Thirst or breath
just now
where the indivisible lays
so eventful over memory

So no line is found
between
except blurred in stories
requisite stories, repeated
again
in sermons and pleadings
on ruled fabric
wrapping wetlands
woven from dirt and light

By Stoel Burrowes

what hands
what fire illuminates this nakedness
not to be looked at directly
a river running
across and under
the thought seat
brimming over an ancient cup
would this, to also be for me
a vein opening
from and to
the would be
vibrating by a stand of trees
would this, to also be for you
a tributary joining
in and into
the time direction
a smell of death upwind
unclear behind a teardrop
a lens letting
off and through
the surface tension
as aback were a position or condition
but a quiver of life

By Martha McCollough

a silent biplane loops
the loop through blue air
as if up there it’s long ago
as if time happened differently
in the sky and looking up
we might see anything —
spaceship or huge shadow
of passenger pigeons
migrating toward absence