Jim Simmerman: Then Again

Jim Simmerman: Then Again

suppose the soul is a stoneand not the holy cellophaneI’ve fancied it,and thus — like the bodyshort of heat, strippedeven of the heart’s flimsy flam–does not hover, waft, ascend,breastroke its wayinto a panoramic hereafter(flourish of French...
Stephen Dobyns: Old House

Stephen Dobyns: Old House

So much death in the room but no people–the candles burned down to their stumps,the food untouched, the meat growing coldin its grease. Under the couch, the cat playswith a mole it dragged in from the barn,The mole crawls off. The cat drags it back.If cats could...