October, by Franz Wright

Crows’ shadows flocked to the moon;
I was drinking a glass of water, or
smoking a cigarette in a dream.

I was talking to you on the telephone, but
did I wake or sleep? And
what about this wide-spread sentient

chauvinism—any thoughts
on that? So much depends
on who you are when you are dead.

A hand is in the glove, in any event,
a human face the mask
of some being no one can see.

On that I think we can agree.

Loosely Related Sheep, by Larissa Spzorluk

Jump, uncle, jump.
Your life has lost its loveliness.
The meadows look like mold-green fleece.
Of those flower marvels,
uncle, those alpine nibbles,
none remains. Jump.

Honey buzzards
bask in you, get your innards
on their beards. Maybe it’s
intentional? In the mold-green clouds,
your blood startles, like a tulip
in a black peat bed.

But it’s you, it’s still you,
cirquing the heavens, nine times
over, eyeing the systems beneath—
icelets, uncle, icelets,
but really, it’s all water now,
passed through your distant niece.

For Once, Playing Guitar, by Jockum Nordström

The Coachman, by Jockum Nordström

Graphic Poem for Khaled Mattawa’s ‘Early Adulthood’, by Unibrow