Poetry

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The ground is alive: Poetry by Brent Cronin

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I Haunt Nature   Hard white oak perfect for burning Thick branch snaps like a thigh Arrange the kindling just so Flames dull in the sunlight They won’t find me.   The ground is alive out here Finger trap squiggling worm Feel him slide down throat A man should eat when he can Especially when…

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Sun Gazing: Poetry by Greg Hill

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Summer’s Last   Her soft hand wound its way toward his back, tracing little swirls there. “It’s beautiful,”   she whispered gently into the cooler air. The sun’s top edge blinked above grassy dunes, and in a moment,   dissolved into the peach-hued sky. He breathed deeply, letting the flavor of salt pique a month…

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Past & Present: Poetry by Stephen Mead

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Judgments   All the pans we placed in this leaky place the rainy day of moving in have long since overflowed, rusted, gone green.   Then why do I keep them, these tins that, calloused, benevolent, firm, your palms washed, scooping locks, lukewarm, up, down, back up to soak a beard kiss-thick?   It tickled,…

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