Author: Threepenny Editor

Is it dark morning?my children askin the pre-dawns of winter.This time, I don’t knowthe answer. I hope so, my loves,I damn sure hopethis sightless coldis the broad back of daylightturning…

I remember I sat in the backseat with a tireand fishing paraphernalia and an open rustytoolbox, as if this part of the car (a seasaltscoured blue Chevy) were part of…

Jim Powell

The one who leftnever left, or leaving,leaves a painted shadowthat outlasts the real wall:the one who leftnever left. The one who stayednever saw, and stayingstays confined in shadowcast there from…

Crone,old meat,once, this town was your home;now you're living on the street.The bottom line has put you there to rot. You can'tpay the rent.Every seven yearsit doubles. Now shelter is…

On this coldthresholdcampedcramped stiff and soreat your doorhere I lie.No reply. Not abjectnot brokendreaming, yes,for real, eyes open stoned on purehope's elixir,centered, alignedclimbing blind: Hummingbirdhalf-assureddragonflydarting by river otter'sdaughterquicksilver thrustill water,…

Persistent at the brink, the cypresseslean away backward to receive the windsprevailing on this spot, balancingresistance and compensation in the open-weavebasketwork of their limbs: weight braced facing a single wayagainst…

Francine Prose

It’s filtering down across our state linenow that the storm has passed—the kind of waterwe’d like to think was born of the river,but it’s not. It only arrives after drowningswine…

Thomas Rayfiel