The Cafe Review

by Keith Dunlap What is it that is left behind to remind us of what occupied this place? Cracked plaster, broken glass, and peeling paint, a

by Kathleen Ellis In this place where the wind from the sun gives way to the wind from the stars the Earth waits for its guests to return

by Kathleen Ellis To sing, was singing, the lowest note in the universe, too low for humans to hear, 57 octaves below middle C. Is there a score

by Peter Schireson I watched my brother ailing, kneeling in a soundproof room mistaking himself for the devil, and the silence clinched me to him

by Peter Schireson I’m coming to the cemetery tonight and I’m going to lie on top of your grave, baby pull a blanket up over us, me on the grass,

by Charlene Langfur What do we do now? Global warming is rising. It’s not surprising. I walk out into the world in spite of it. Each day I pass

by Rochelle Owens In an early version a deaf mute a hermaphrodite captured after the siege a hermaphrodite emptied of allegory seated on the

by Mark Terrill Sunday morning coming up out of the subway in Berlin the last shreds of lucidity torn away from the streets not far from the

by Mark Terrill If you can navigate the subway station in Hamburg–Altona climb the stairs and walk through the train station among the

by Mark Terrill The black and white of it all; ancient majestic oak trees blasted over in the storm — entire rows of birch and poplar knocked

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