Poetry – Issue 27•Cold Comfort to Doom Sandra Meek No crops to sow. No shocks. No cobs, no corn’s down floss. No cock’s crow. No stormsto grow. No cool to morn. No blood to spot; no flocks of cotton bolls to lop. No flocks. . .
Poetry – Issue 27•Taos John Poch The orange-and-brown-on-light-olive ottoman beside the truck on the side of the road next to the gas station out on the mesa is apparently for sale. Pathetic, no, but funny, and funnier still when we stop to buy it for five dollars,
Poetry – Issue 27•Yonder Rob Shapiro When the last rifle-shots of the season ring out across the river—swollen thick with rain and mud, moving forward as everything must—
Poetry – Issue 27•New State Christine Gosnay When I am in a strange place, the pain of our separation is conceptual. I sit and play at guessing how far away the thunderhead,
Poetry – Issue 27•When You Walk Over the Earth Katie Farris When you walk over the earth, it asserts itself: “Here. Here.
Poetry – Issue 27Speaking of the Wolf: Advice on Word Displacement from a Ukrainian Linguist Katie Farris
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