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…
by Judith Cody Eric Satie roams alone through Paris; it rains. While Striking Feathers: Rain is dislodged is fallen—transmogrifies into sweat Dew is dissolved is absorbed—transmogrifies into sweat Blood is drawn is congealed—transmogrifies into sweat Urine is discharged is rain—transmogrifies into sweat (Audience applauds while spasmodically coughing.) With Drum Held…