By Douglas Thornton

In a closed valley

Walking to the south;

Loud wind in the air

By Özge Lena

A sharp moon blues the Bosphorus.

I stand on the dark edge

of one of Istanbul's seven hills,

and the city lies beneath me

By Eli Rodriguez Fielder

the last map drawn by hand

was sent to me by the last artist to use paper

and I found the last pencil

to make the last annotation

By Jade Bailey Brock

I don’t read the news anymore. Up north, they have this phrase for people like us: tammaqtutit uppirusukkavit nalligijaunnginnirnik?—do you mistakenly believe you’re not loved? All those letters crowding out the spaces where the seers used to go.

By Athena Melliar

Aeolou is a street leading to the Acropolis of Athens.

Aeolou is a road to the Athenian citadel, like a safe harbourage offering to a stranger looking

rather familiar — Τίνος είσαι εσύ;

By Matt Hetherington

then they mourned her like a suicide

then they sent her to the forests

By David Koehn

I am alone in my study at Tydeman’s in Rijnsburg.

This dialogue between us spares the guilty,

Unbroken fire hydrants on both sides of the Seine,

The identity of the people who betrayed us,

By Asim Mudgal

Sounds of the distant voice, utensils clattering, water flushing out in the sewer are

possessing my rented room.

In this, I am caught up in the directions

Of east or west, north or south.

By Laurence Lillvik

We’re not asking you to understand. Not begging you to be the goldfish. We’re not a willow in a field, or the groundwater it signifies.