She’s never touched a drop of LSD but maybe on the threshold of seizure
…from amethyst to rose to aquamarine delineated by reflected boughs a stained glass window segues into a canvas by Degas…

a gust
shatters the surface
fragments

Diana Webb

I break open a thought the sky has compressed since long. It is the one from the manuscript of your dream.

beyond looking
a butterfly jigsaws
into my identity

Richa Sharma

The purr at the back door announces the delivery of another mouse.

cold sunrise
the saucer of milk
empty again

Bob Lucky

All the roads mistaken brought me here.

Bob Lucky

“I’m tired,” my brother says. “The kind of tired you can’t sleep off.”

“Me too,” I say. “It’s been a long life. I could sleep for a week.”

new snow
cleansing the palette
between courses

Peter Newton

I hear Iceland’s having a sale on icebergs. The eco-tourists arrive in droves carbon footprinting what’s left of the snow.

polar bears
in figurine size
blood moon

Peter Newton

The light in the room is dim and gray. It is an overspill from the drizzle outside the window. For a time I am in and of the wider world.

a moment
to be consumed by
no longer being

Hansha Teki

…and she again calls me by my sister’s name…

dementia
the wait for the
genetics to kick in

Mona Bedi

I am a child. My first identity. My long and lingering identity.

longest day
permission to stay up
to watch the sunset

Diana Webb