By Matthew D Albertson

The book predated all.

I was drawn to it, a lure,

As anyone with half a heart would

To a broken-winged crane.

By Tom Nutting

They buried them carefully,

these sacred fragments

of metal and glass,

By Rojan Biniaz

I sat in class —

my body breathing, my soul adrift in an endless dream.

By Kylie Ayn Yockey

fuck the wild

build me cities

By R S Kendle

hush of pine and heath

fills this musty mouth

By Lilia Bakanova

a vanishing sea

a biodiverse habitat

By Deborah J Mantle

On a grey, muffled day,

walking by silent buildings of red brick,

By Petra Kuppers

Mouth of cave               oldsea              hemoglobin runs

By Briana Zelkova

This barren land devoid of bravery

Our glances add a tab to come back

By Sarah-Clare Conlon

Weird waters swirl,

mineralised aquamarine

or cobalt or cyan channels,

By Jane Lovell

Their presence in winter

defines land that Sea will claim.

By Martha Sprackland

The village stream will fall asleep

still running but as thickened silk

By Joshua Walker

Morning slips through the broken cabin window,

light pooling across the floorboards.

By Julie Steiner

“If I die young,” the country smash begins,

oblivious to the fact it’s being played

within a children’s hospital. Dismayed

By Valentina Fulginiti

A shopping cart will do, loose wheels

on rusty hinges, an IKEA tarp tossed

over dubious Lares. Home is a memory

of something that once called shelter. 

By Jeff Hardin

Whole cities burning became the norm while

so many, unconcerned, didn’t bother looking up.

They chose to live there, a voice said, a chorus

agreeing. One historical moment alluded to another.

By Rod Ugalde De Haene

Dark days, and how beautiful to feel the low light,

cold days of sweaters and socks with sandals,

and then warmer days, with wrestlers,

and how long the hours are when night arrives

By Lynsey France

Each nameless acre becoming puddle

creek, river (I’ve never been this far)

to describe skin; its heavier

By Lisa Perkins

The sky is a turning flood, a reflecting

blanket of misunderstanding, the muted

violence of dishwater grey and steel

By Hauk Engelien

don’t you know enough now? 

I’ve told you how it ends

how everything darkens 

in the hour of the wolf