Turn the bottle not the cork.
I want a draft on my desk by morning.
Knuckles to the blade. A quick punch
to its bottom flaps opens an empty box.
On top of the stack, a bottle twisted flowers the napkins.
Alternating the direction of the wood at its ends
keeps the pile from falling. Pat your palm
on the metal to gauge the heat.
Marry the bottles. Count the till. Spray the mats.
by Carrie Shipers
What cars could make men do: bleed, curse,
throw wrenches. Grin, swagger, clap
each other’s backs. Women worried
about money, what to fix for meals, what might
be broken and …
Postcard to Miller from Bernheim’s Forest
Whose woods these are I certainly know.
His name is everywhere, and without that name
on signs, envelopes, cars, jackets, and fliers
these third-growth woods would be no-growth.
A century …
I took off my clothes in the dressing room
and hung them on the nail for all those skins
that one brings in from the decent world.
“No talking please,” …
Call & Response
A nervous dog will snap at wind
that snarls outdoors as snows descend
till only walking pacifies
the wolf awoken in the hound.
We trudge the path we’ve memorized,
our coats …