By Gerry LaFemina
Only three days later I realized the chalk outline was gone, faded, no doubt, in the rains that flushed the gutters clean, & now a steady line of haze
as the sun walks its beat. There were photographers, yes, a few nights back: flashbulbs burp [...]
By Donald Hall
August, goldenrod blowing. We walkinto the graveyard, to findmy grandfather's grave. Ten years ago
By Joyce Carol Oates
Combing my hair, a sudden snarlin the pink teeth.
How silent, death entering.