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By Elliott batTzedek
Across a small suburban lawn
a very large man is riding
a very large tractor mower
By Kazim Ali
I was whispered along the road at Ache
toward the sun-puddled gate
By Jose Padua
I give to you a portrait of America in trash.
I give it to you with love and respect, America:
mountains of beer cans crumpled, plastic figures
By Jaime Lee Jarvis
Was it the rush of words in that language
we understood only when we cocked our heads,
speaking on the slant, slurring our way
By JoAnne Growney
A stand of poplars is a self-assembling
ground-water protection system.
By Heather Davis
The lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock
By Gregory Pardlo
Unfinished, the road turns off the fill
from the gulf coast, tracing the bay, to follow
the inland waterway.
By Chris August
America, don’t we love like oil?
Don’t our slippery arms
Pave the pores of those who need us?
By Wang Ping
What more can you say
Nomad daughter of glaciers?
City has bleached the sun from your face
By Patricia Smith
The storm left a wound seeping,
a boulevard yawning, some