inside, in the very quick of you, in the loving lines/
on your palms, you make yourself visible./
I ride your seasons each time the wind/
tosses you round like a leaf on the mill pond/
I'm there how can I not be? We've practised/
it for centuries, this art of riding.//by geraldine green'dehumidified' my hands are tight, like the stale plastic/nameplate that fled the black mailbox/on the wall outside my house. current/home, that is. we sharpied identities/onto the empty space left behind; i've/marked my own distinguishing cuts/and scrapes, found red in my dry knuckle/wrinkles. byproducts of the season, zero/humidity side effects – we lose our dew/and forget to tell the postman we're gone.//by SmackThey had given up hope/
of any lasting redemption,/
saving grace a dream/
of a distant past./And yet still/
some few placed words/
in carefully considered order,/
and some few painted,/
and some few danced,/
and some few simply loved/
more than was reasonable./Because that was enough/
for just this next small moment.//by Loree Harrell//..
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