Latest Writing
POETRY
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NEW YORK TO PHILADELPHIA by Lynne Procope
Let’s say Philadelphia’s a city constructed entirely of door knobs, one great opening, one endless turning into something new. Your voice is on the phone, love, is a rocks glass overflown with whiskey and burning. Your thumbs slip from keypad to six string, your thumbs are the teeth of wild city cats.
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LIFT by Muriel Nelson
Doubt seems to be in. The worry drill whirs where the dote is. Where the face was a vacancy. And yet the ear is occupied waiting, for there are other root canals, so you (mis)heard. No doubt the fire’s hunger whirls
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SPELL I by Mary Lou Buschi
After Louise Glück 1. Somewhere, my brother is traveling— The right side of his head a red-clawed tulip swallowing the cold.
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