“Prescribe yourself your favorite medicine, / go home and go to bed for like a week.”
Category Archive: Authors
“Gulls kettle in the steam /rising from what, / from meters up, must seem / like tea bags but / for the smell”
“No chance your mortal bride can thrill you as I do. / Awe-slapped, your lips hung loose at your first sight of me.”
“We plod in numb, arthritic steps—uphill / at first to make returning easier.”
“You’ll think yourself a marble bust. You’re slate, / And every creep and critic is a sponge”
“High-cheeked, dark-haired, toned like prehistory / put him to work”
“How came I to this place of burning stars?”
“Though they became by vows one flesh / he felt himself a little less”
“We watched the colors break and spread / At what would be our passion’s peak”
“My father sent my mother a photograph from boot camp— / tucked in a corner of her mirror when she put on lipstick”
“Prescribe yourself your favorite medicine, / go home and go to bed for like a week.”
“Somebody built a god near seventh street / beside the freeway in a vacant lot”
“My Baba rokus through her TV apps, / calls up the Royal Shakespeare Company”
“The years have done their thieving, / No time can be retrieved.”
“The harlequins should tumble, for your death / will not defy the odds”
“Time will not fill my teacup, will not come / To me with cucumbers in early spring.”
ERNEST HILBERT
“The wind’s so hard the timber groans. / Bright newborn blossoms blow like snow.”
ISABEL VANDER BLEEK
“I gave up alcohol for Lent / And took up cigarettes. / My choice was met with loud dissent, / In vaguely loving threats.”
