Richard Dinges, Jr.
Winter Evening, 2017
a dark cavern
beyond cold hard
glass that reflects
my face, pupils
with stars, mere
a clean blank page.
John Sibley Williams
Radio Flyer, 2016
A rusty red wagon abandoned
in the sun, dolls eyes and the green
rifles of plastic men peering out.
Someone has tied sneakers
to the handrails of an old
merry-go-round. They weigh it down
from cycling endlessly by itself.
Within this image millions
of pixels converse into meaning
like the stars that seem our witness
but have actually burned out. Truth
is only as militant as how it’s remembered.
I remember the wagon but now how it got there,
the green of my soldiers but never their aim.
And near the edge, out of focus,
an oak horse rocks childless.
SNAGGING THE BUTTERFLY by Don Russ
I afterwards imagined he danced –
a cat – mid-air. Not just that, but landing
spoke a butterfly.
From his loosed mouth
its doubled beauty broke, a dusty yellow
flutter of the sun.
So fragile a thing,
so expressed, the lovely world so worded
every end its own beginning:
falling short he lunged again.
He had to, it’s written-in. From shambles
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Some Exemplary Fiction: