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José Luís Peixoto (translated from the Portuguese by Hugo dos Santos)
Alone, I arrive in a looted city and walk slowly, my arms hanging loosely, I look through open doors, what remains is scattered in the streets

journal

The Common

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Rodney Terich Leonard
Some people don't schwa the A in her name, they won't ah it, like they do for ago & anonymous. Into secondhand enunciation, they dote on & long- chew the alphabet's first letter, its crunch-gristle, A-dele.

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Four Way Books

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Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

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Liveright Books

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Lauren Camp
With wine, I went right to the open mouth, took it down, familiar with the charm of my own particular sin. It was as if I had already all the history of my two worlds, morning and later—

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Tupelo Press

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Valerie Mejer Caso (translated from the Spanish by Michelle Gil-Montero)
The sky in its ultramarine hour frames that tremendous, impossible moment when the stores close. The seamstresses turn to other seams.

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Action Books

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jayy dodd
before my mouth deads this slick body.                     Sing. wax on testify come, honey come, o they’d be honeycombwax testimony song.                     later, stories better tell could tongue my If.

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Bennington Review

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Geoffrey Nutter
On our visit we stayed at the octagon house— and were sleepless in view of the eight-sided land. Uncombed grass webbed the sides of the angled veranda. And on one side of the eight-sided land the incandescent lanterns of the doll shops flickered on.

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Wave Books

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Moon Bo Young (translated from the Korean by Hedgie Choi)

God wears a massive down jacket. Humans are the countless duck feathers trapped inside, the poet writes. Sometimes a feather pokes out.

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Black Ocean

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Adalber Salas Hernández (translated from the Spanish by Robin Myers)
At least the tropical sun watches over the thirst that rasps our throats, gifts the metallic sweat that fades our names and presses at our foreheads with the weight of a promise. Here the word “sun” reminds me of nothing. It doesn’t have a dazzling eye inside it, a sky like a concave pupil.

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Circumference

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Elizabeth Bishop
Moonlight as we enter the New Brunswick woods, hairy, scratchy, splintery; moonlight and mist caught in them like lamb’s wool on bushes in a pasture. The passengers lie back. Snores. Some long sighs. A dreamy divagation begins in the night, a gentle, auditory, slow hallucination....

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Farrar, Straus and Giroux

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