The Church - AM Spence

A frosty afternoon,

in floating fog,

off a main road covered

by ice, both sides of

grass thick with frost,

I am looking at stain glass.

A bare tree has

ice-roots and ice

-twigs, and at the end

of an ice

-path a stone cross reappears,

then disappears.

AM Spence was born in Manchester, England. She read literature as an undergraduate at The University of Manchester, where in 2009 she completed her MA in creative writing. Her first collection, Reflect, was published last year.

A Broken Head(set) - Jesus Rivera

This past summer was like all other suburban summers: short and hot. Short enough so that it came and went and, having not overstayed its welcome, would be welcomed again. Hot enough that little kids cracked eggs on their asphalt driveways, scrambled for a round of hide and go seek, and before the tiny seeker could finish counting to ten and move her hands from her eyes, the yolks were very well done. On both sides.

Three Poems - Scott Laudati

my first night back we were far apart once but you can hear my heart now in this chest, and your hair used to itch my skin if you didn’t tuck it back but you’ll never hear about it again

Dry Counties et al - Carter Vance

Dry Counties When everything slips your mind past grace notes of 50 th paralells, way up over the Bloor Street splendor of gutter punk mystics dancing shoe cymbal jigs for silvery leather of policeman’s caps; how shiny with self-serious contradiction are they in atoned posture for dead

White Liquor

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