Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Vincent ToroA lung lit like diesel
is not fable or fodder.
Is not sewage siphoned from stern
and starboard. Cuffs, not slapdash plums
plunge from your garden
By Roger ReevesThe moths in the orchard squeal
with each pass of the mistral wind.
Yet the reapers and their scythes,
out beyond the pear trees, slay wheat
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By Ruth Irupé SanabriaI am the daughter of doves
That disappeared into dust
Hear my pulse whisper:
By Alison Roh ParkIf it were not so scarred from your accidental
rages—uptown, upstate—I would have rested
on the cinder block of your chest.