Poetry
Cemetery by Richard Luftig
The only mourners left; These summer storms Those winter moons. Winds that sand Away the names On tombstones To flatness as if No one ever lived Here to farm the…
No. 4 · Breaking CurfewCollapsed Barn
This plywood in its dotage has fallen in on itself and only the varicose veins of the nails run along the epidermis of rotting boards. Swallows…
No. 4 · Breaking CurfewFour O' Clocks
She started them from seed, ordered from catalogues that choke off a mailbox in December while trying to delude you about the inevitability of spring. Now,…
No. 4 · Breaking CurfewClosing Night
Very few farmers mourn this last act of winter. They look ahead to a new play still in rehearsal that they hope will have a long…