The night is dying,
Morning merely mist.
Clouds remains silent
About their loss.
We cross frontiers
So easily that we mistake
Heaven for blue sky.
My voice was blind, grayed,
Unheard,
Rolling like a nightingale into song.
The ocean still haunts,
It’s salt embedded
In our skin.
Natalie Crick from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Rust and Moth, The Chiron Review. Ink in Thirds, Interpreters House and The Penwood Review. This year her poem, 'Sunday School' was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be released by Bitterzoet Press this year.
Jessie Janeshek
Watching Horror/Watching Harlow
Laura Filion
Growing Out
Timothy Berrigan
By Letting Rooms
Stepy Kamei
A Wolf Stalks Amongst Her Sunflowers
Alejandro Escudé
The Republic of WannaCry
F. Daniel Rzicznek
from Leafmold
Josh Silver
07/13
Kimberly Prijatel
assembly of god
Dawn Pink
Cotton Morning
Amanda Tumminaro
Evening Routine
Natalie Crick
Ocean Voice