A green river bells and
comes into hue, a blues
riff slices the dusk, crows
caw from a trash barge
offshore, a kick drum
punches out Love,
Baby, Love. A shirt falls
to the kitchen floor.
God does not speak
with consistency, why
should we? Mourning doves
outside your open window;
Who's Got the Hooch?
from the house
band next door; coriander,
fines herbes and your face
in the chrome toaster.
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Issue 63
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Editor's Note
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POETRY
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FICTION
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ESSAY