Poetry
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I HAVE NOTHING NEW TO SAY, by Sinéad MacInnes
SINÉAD MACINNES On your whistle-stop tour of the Highlandsand Islands our whispers are saidto be heard by native ears O Dhiadè rinn iad? Oh God what have they done? Aon.One. The Barabhas moor on Lewis is empty. Leòdhas –…
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THE FALL OF TROY, by William Doreski
A false dawn awakens us. The right time, when the cloud-facts explain us to each other and absorb the spilled light.
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LITTLE THIEVES, by Susan Gordon Byron
Dali’s clocks were sincere. They slipped over things, slid past and took nothing with them. They changed. Or I changed them.
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