When she stirs, the night nestles close, the sky is cracked open you can hear the wind

The cords tore, ripped pieces away, and you were left

She insists on making a little potato salad, stooping to get vinegar from a lower cabinet.

All the light is slowly seeping from the world and all of autumn’s works are come undone

My desire to be heard, to be noticed, to be understood, produced in listeners the very opposite of its intended effect.

And we, you and I, all of us, might see these old bones arch back to life

How close apocalypse feels touching this stone.

I’d never seen one before, but she wears the points translucently, her real one almost comical against the square cardboard cut-outs covered with gold glitter, an Instagram

The thing was misbehaving; it raged with stale, smoky breath. sidewalk’s upward slope just outside my bedroom window.

I lit a candle for him, my wife trying to sleep on the couch

There is no end of them, it seems: these doors Within doors, propped open in their own good

You say little, but words swirl— no ahead and no behind, only you

An awakening, a tiny trickle of truth, like the crisp autumns somersaulting the sidewalk’s upward slope just outside my bedroom window.

A summer note from our Editor!

We barely knew, then, what it meant to venerate A life that shone ahead like a mid-day star;

Last night she heard her father coughing in the basement. She says that’s not unusual.

But after the cake batter bowl broke on the floor, and the moon outside the window glared at her like an otherworldly stalker, Auntie Samantha started to doubt everything,

Depth can simply mean the distance down. Considering the Sequoia, depth would include its roots.

Little one, hear your life in the slanting warble of the finch.

Sometimes, it is just a question of getting where we know the path will lead, but slowly.