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 Kayla M. Miller Although wicked is, may never wicked stay. Although the damp dark steals away light’s gradient— Like a protruding sack of liquid birth— It tears through onward to the North glamoured night. Prophets rain down and swoon over life. Mist eyes and detach ears, For those that know…