Spring 2016

Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



Things that are beautiful and die.

​​​​​​​ —Laura Kasischke

Cindy Veach

On a plane we say souls—
            one hundred souls aboard

not the same with cars
            as if proximity to earth negates

the idea that we are more
            beautiful than matter.

Is that why down here the trooper covers
            the body with a sheet—

and two deer, side by side
            on the shoulder of the highway

legs splayed like clothespins
            that lost their grip

are emptied carcasses filling
            with pyramids of new snow

feather weight?
            The plow blade sparks blue

when it finds pavement

These balding, out-of-balance tires
            carry us—

each rotation
            stitched to the next

if luck holds
            random and catch as catch can

but viable viable
            here on earth

and nowhere else
            and nowhere next.

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