by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
A poem based on The Pale King by David Foster Wallace By Cynthia McGarvie An alfalfa breeze. Socks’ burrs. Dry scratching inside a culvert. Rusted wire incised in the sun all day until hardened, worms incised in the lead. A horse smells the worms incised in the wing, silent with…