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Poetry Daily is an anthology of contemporary poetry. Each day, we bring you a new poem from new books, magazines, and journals.
Jenny Xie
Doors plastered with red paper cutouts so that the oncoming year passes these houses by.
Tim Carrier
On the second night of the winter’s long weekend, Karen brought out her guitar & we huddled over the cracks in the old stone patio, wrapped in blankets in the cold. The mountains across the nightplain, cedar & sage in dirt in the dark, were moving around. Orion lifted the Magic Scythe. The moon was saying, Yes, but time means very little to me. Up, on the little flat roof, the tarpaper shifted around. The little animals out in the dark, their hearts moved up & down in the dark. Two flat black stones, just beyond where the light from the house could reach, were looking around.
Cynthia Cruz
If I use cellophane and diazotypeI just might disintegrate.
Jennifer Metsker
My father photoshops the word “waterfall” over the waterfall in the photo. In case I didn’t know, in case I had forgotten. I admire the word waterfall, a clothed thing. It clambers over rocks, turning natural tricks. If only I could forget about the megachurch over the hill with air-conditioned legs inside. If only I were thirsty or had a vestigial pail. It’s like whale watching, waiting for my return. Or like waiting for the rain to put out fires in a megadrought. Palm fronds rattle their accordion hands as I open up my megamouth to spit out my share of ashes. 

The ballgame crackles from a tiny television set and shoves the sky into a pocket. My father stares at the air as if there was a ball there. There’s a gelatinous substance on the steeple, there’s a gelatinous substance, I’m sure of it, though I’ve never been up there. Now I’ll never know love again and love will never know me because the world is a scheme and a scheme cannot lift a saggy liver-spotted hand from a hymnal. 
Sarah Barber
According to Birds of North America,where they occur is everywhere all year.The tips of their wings collide in take-off.
Patrick Phillips
I can see you through the bonfire, with us.A fifth of Old Crow circling the dark.
Ryan Wilson
It is creeping across                                                the withered backcountry. Where grim fogs graze hills                                                and gray mists haunt the hollows that hug
Alice Major
A film of silver on the bookshelf,fluffs of disaggregated substanceon the baseboards. Much of it is me—
Rebecca Perry
i walked to the park after the blizzard. the air had the muffled quality that follows snowfall. no distinction could be made between the white slopes of the park and the  bright grey sky.