The True Self
by Carl Dennis You have to keep alert if you want to distinguish Between a man giving by nature And a man selfish by nature Who’d like to become
To My Neighbors (This Morning My Flesh is a Lowered Flag)
by Marko Pogacar Honey melts in tea, completely, unlike you with serious music, and unlike me in you, the tense wire of the never–ending
To The Gardener
by Marko Pogacar Rosehips in garden beds, no–one expresses opinions, figs, dried and fresh, both hollowed out with beaks, overhead an
Light, Something Forthcoming
by Marko Pogacar Like half of a peach in its southern sweetness. like raspberries, like peas. a cow mooing out of the white alliance of bones.
Thunder Lot
by Petar Matovic The asphalt lane of the street has kicked out the television picture, now these dimensions are mixed. Silicon pollen
Corridor
by Petar Matovic The paths spread out like a sediment from an overturned cup of coffee, chaotic visions. Automobiles in the rush hour: the sudden