The Cafe Review

by Steve Luttrell Machines are our companions where we’re going machines are our companions all stainless in their steely skin cold, and so

by Steve Luttrell Is sadness then the sound of a sonata the blue chill of loneliness, in the black nightfall sleep? The soft sound of the

by Steve Luttrell Let’s leave it here that whole thing come like a shy intruder (a souvenir of waiting) in the unending night two days of rain

by Russ Sargent Dreaming of Petrarch’s world with its mountain laurels and green water in those streams running through the Vaucluse where Acteon

by Russ Sargent I found a road through the olive grove. An empty chair at the stone table. The sea a long way down. I didn’t know what else to

by Russ Sargent Calle Lorca will always be the scent of fresh bread clinging to me all the way to the tenth century ruin where al – Mutasim

by Michael Palma How Whitman would have loved it here, This diner on this Sunday morning. Bright with the chrism of the rain, He’d track pure mud

by Michael Palma The one who thinks he’s in despair Or nearly there Crawlstrokes down the morning Flapping translucent wings. Beauty’s withdrawn,

by Michael Palma Sometimes, like an old clipping I carry around with me, I unfold the time we went, For no particular reason, For a weekend on

by Jonathan Skinner Cape May Dendroica tigrina your sharp, slightly decurved chestnut and gold horns striped at the throat black streaks speak

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