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When I sleep, you dream, turning and turning
on a soft earth.

Light drools down, blinds me. I can’t see your cheek
curve. Words rise

Fog flowed in a continuous river through the trees. / Inside the river, a little light. / Light trapped in gray smoke, beckoning.

In the eerie, quiet week between Christmas and New Year’s 2021, halfway through a Fulbright to Hungary, I went to a medical clinic in Budapest to have a lump in my breast examined. I wasn’t too worried. I was young, it was probably a cyst...

This issue features the kind of striking, expansive photography that has come to define this magazine for the better part of two decades. Lynn Johnson’s portfolio of portraits revolves around a visionary art project that has turned a...

Squint, reader, through the sudden fog: 
                            the sea’s gnaw and lick-bright:
Eldey, pillar of stone: where two
                            great auks survive, briefly—
before reenacting the end of their story

In half-light of morning the red car appears / over the bridge, suspension wires like streaks of rain. 

Cheap child’s toy/ incompetent user/ pilot error—tangled and hanging / Sway, spin, climb, and fall on its ladder its helix of string / Pleuston (meaning dwelling on the surface) / (meaning sail meaning float)

Periodical cicadas do not rely on camouflage to survive. They overwhelm their predators with numbers, billions of them crawling out of dime-size holes in the ground, an evolutionary strategy known among biologists as “predator satiation.”