By Gary Lawless

I

more hawks this year —

last night, an owl —

years ago, in Camden,

Bucky Fuller told us:

“There is no longer

any up or down —

now only in,

in and out”

always something

falling from the sky.

II

ravens, crows —

I flew to the moon —

bats, and owls —

I am flying through the sky

I am moving through the earth

dark birds, dark matter,

we are leaving and

we won’t be back.

By Bruce Parker

There is a field of absence since you left
whereon to begin a painting, if only one knew
where to put the first stroke, if one dared to take color
on one’s brush and begin, somehow. A canvas once vibrated
with coming strokes of color; now it lies like an empty field,
all that nourishes harvested, bare,
waiting for the plow to bite, for seed, for rain.
I hold my brush and hesitate, look over the
field of absence, search for a place for presence
to begin again. Since you left, where to begin?

By Uche Nduka

with the head
in the heart of
every broken little thing

some boobs catch
a rising colorist
never mind the shadow

then I turn on my heels
a wasp nest a quilted satin box
around the reeds around the peninsula

there are many things
a peach can teach

cumulus between sleeping
and waking
backward motion in forward motion

the back of a spoon
in the back of a room

By Uche Nduka

no matter what’s on the menu
morning is a suitcase
I have to unload

no cataloging method
though one writes through
family heirlooms

in and of itself
or through the verbiage
of the foliage

or that constancy
that makes common sense noncommittal

to move as if
the mattress mattered