By Valencia Robin
There’s a brother who sits over on North University. Looks like James Baldwin in a do-rag. Sings. Is he homeless? People give him money
By Gabrielle Bates
Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,red-veined with a fine fuzz: canebrake pitchers hooded against the good rain.
By Major Jackson
curbside on an Arp-like table. He’s aloneof course, in the arts district as it were, legs folded, swaying a foot so that his body seems to summon some deep immensity from all that surrounds: