Michael Collier

  MEADOW   Moments that were tender, if I can use that word, now rendered in memory’s worn face, have names attached and, less...
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Michael Waters

Not ghost horse, fever-dream horse, horse inked on silken fog / Setting off once more the neighbor’s neurotic bulldog, // Nor the wan roan of the brief, elliptical lyric / Looping infinities in our pre-dawn cul-de-sac, /

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