Poetry

By India Poulton

By Stephanie Kocsis

By Vanessa Page

He has bookshelves not of books, but an infinite number of stolen words he keeps in cans.

You are staring in the mirror and your skin has broken out again

There are all these people / Running in circles / Checking out asses

I can feel you trespassing beneath me

We are all sitting on beds fifty floors above sea level

I didn’t get the job. But I have this storyline folded under a coaster.

My sister was cut one night while dancing past a pane of glass no longer a window.

build a nest out of 2am humidity. She’s pulled all the sleep across to her side.

A child is built with a house grows skinward

with polished shoulders / fierce glazed faces / we shake fruits from / crooked trees above