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By Kazim Ali
I place the peach gummy on my tongue
I have come to Boulder, Colorado with an agenda which is what
It is my intention to rewrite the cosmic legislation which governs time and space to better allow for what I am for now calling the anarchy of sense
By Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
Behind the walls of your jails we wait
heartbeats audible now, muffled thuds
above the current of blood running thin
By Claire Hermann
God separated the light from the darkness,
but I have a light switch.
Once there was morning and evening,
but now someone has torn the heart out of a mountain,
By Alan King
The diner's nearly empty
when you both arrive - except for
the six or so other patrons and
a waitress who calls everyone "Hun".
By Kim Roberts
Hundreds of tiny fry
crowd the single tank,
churning the water milky.
The fry grow to parr
By Jane Hirshfield
As things grow rarer, they enter the ranges of counting.
Remain this many Siberian tigers,
that many African elephants. Three hundred red egrets.
By Lauren Camp
The soup cooks for an hour while vultures and buzzards pluck the market.
My father wipes his forehead with a white cloth.
Once, each day began with khubz and samoon
By Craig Santos Perez
Craig Santos Perez performs the poem "Spam's Carbon Footprint" at the 2016 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Ross Gay
Ross Gay performs the poem "Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude" at the 2016 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Jeanann Verlee
I finish a small hot plate of grease & salt, & push the scraped-clean plate across the counter for someone else to scrub / this, I say I have paid for but it doesn't fit