“I saw a man pursuing the horizon” by Stephen Crane

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never—”

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.

“Unpacking a Globe” by Arthur Sze

I gaze at the Pacific and don’t expect
to ever see the heads on Easter Island,

though I guess at sunlight rippling
the yellow grasses sloping to shore;

yesterday a doe ate grass in the orchard:
it lifted its ears and stopped eating

when it sensed us watching from
a glass hallway—in his sleep, a veteran

sweats, defusing a land mine.
On the globe, I mark the Battle of

the Coral Sea—no one frets at that now.
A poem can never be too dark,

I nod and, staring at the Kenai, hear
ice breaking up along an inlet;

yesterday a coyote trotted across
my headlights and turned his head

but didn’t break stride; that’s how
I want to live on this planet:

alive to a rabbit at a glass door—
and flower where there is no flower.

“Stilling to North” by Arthur Sze

Just as a blue tip of a compass needle
stills to north, you stare at a pencil

with sharpened point, a small soapstone
bear with a tiny chunk of turquoise

tied to its back, the random pattern
of straw flecked in an adobe wall;

you peruse the silver poplar branches,
the spaces between branches, and as

a cursor blinks, situate at the edge
of loss—the axolotl was last sighted

in Xochimilco over twenty years ago;
a jaguar meanders through tawny

brush in the Gila Wilderness—
and, as the cursor blinks, you guess

it’s a bit of line that arcs—a parsec
made visible—and as you sit,

the imperfections that mark you
attune you to a small emptied flask

tossed to the roadside and the x,
never brewed, that throbs in your veins.

“Pirouette” by Made in Heights

pour my tea, pour my thoughts

into separate beds
spilling out

in the clouds

whirling like a pirouette

every breath, every cross

everywhere i turn
in my head

stitching thread

until

my temples burn.
From the crease

of your mouth

to the picket fences,

all the space, stretching out,

blurring my defenses

dignity, diligence,

i could not avenge

sink my teeth

in the sheets

and taste

the emptiness.

—-

‘The Subject of Retreat’ by Yona Harvey

Your black coat is a door
in the storm. The snow
we don’t mention
clings to your boots & powders
& puffs. & poof. Goes.
Dust of the fallen. Right here
at home. The ache
of someone gone-missing. Walk it off
like a misspoken word.
Mound of snow. Closed door.
I could open it.

Or maybe just, you know—
brush it off.

Then what? The snow
on the other side. The sound
of what I know & your, no, inside it.

‘Love’s Body’ by Jonathan Wells

Love gives all its reasons
as if they were terms for peace.
Love is this but not that
that but not this.
Love as it always was.

But there is no peace in the mountain
cleft where the fruit bats scatter
from the light.
There is no peace in the hollow when
the heat snuffs night’s blue candle.

The outline of brown leaves on
the beach is the wind’s body.

A crow is squawking at the sun
as if the screech itself is dawn.
Let me hear every perfect note.
How I loved that jasper morning.

slouching in a Chinese booth

there’s flesh on my fortune cookie,
moulded up lives that never fruit
labia, luck, ‘a dream you have
will come true’ so close your eyes
fold

the crumbs cragged on the table,
sidled up in the plastic, vanillla
smith or burnt sugar like burned
out

pick up the pieces, next time
hold the cookie to your ear
like a conch, hear the soft
breath

breathe
life goes whispering on.

“Thirst” by Laura Cronk

Unclouded third eye and lush
red wings.  I’m pouring water
from cup to cup.

This is the water we are meant
to drink with the other animals.
There are daffodils by the water,

a road leading from the water
to the shining crown of the sun.
My white hospital gown—

off-the-rack and totally sane.
My foot unsteady, though,
heel held aloft, missing its stiletto.

Nine months sober emblazoned
on my flat chest in red
below girlish curls and mannish chin.

You can’t see my eyes.
You’ve never seen them.

I look through the telescope each night

and voyager one is just lonely
echos in the black purples
of space, a rusted blues
record playing on repeat.
I bet voyager will land
on planets with accountants
hitting ten keys till midnight
leather belts holding back
the silver buckled stress
of capitalisms trulls
with soft pink hands.
I’ll cry fraud, universe.
Auditors shouldn’t
grow into chairs
on other planets.
I could.
Water me carefully
with spreadsheets
and fluorescent
lights. Transplant
me to an empty
planet, or bury me
on Mars beside
the wild roombas
and fracking drifter.
Metal is so cold
to aching fingers
caressing
the satellite blips
in the dead of night.
Telescopes weigh
of dreams and escape
and I wonder if other
tired eyes watch
stars fade
with quiet hope
thinking
‘I’ll be free there.’

“The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.