Tomatoes, by Stephen Dobyns

A woman travels to Brazil for plastic surgery and a face-lift. She is sixty and has the usual desire to stay pretty. Once she is healed, she takes her new face out on the streets of Rio. A young man with a gun wants her money. Bang, she’s dead. The body is shipped back to…

Bus Stop, by Donald Justice

Lights are burning In quiet rooms Where lives go on Resembling ours.The quiet lives That follow us — These lives we lead But do not own — Stand in the rain So quietly When we are gone, So quietly… And the last bus Comes letting dark Umbrellas out — Black flowers, black flowers. And lives…

Evening, by Stuart Dischell

For an hour or two the evening has no limits Or so it seems to you as you walk the pavements Of this, your adoptive city. Before you the sun At play lights the windows of the office buildings In the vault of the avenue, conveying odd images Like the faces seen in the flames…

Longing, a Documentary, by Anne Carson

Shot List 1. Night. River. subtitle: It was for such a night she had waited. 2. Trunk of her car is open and lit by a funnel of light from the porch. 3. She loads the trunk: 4×6 trays, photographic papers, strobe light. Strobe doesn’t fit, she angles it into the backseat. 4. She is…

Urban Myth, by Jamey Dunham

A couple awaiting the arrival of their first-born delivers instead a ring-tailed lemur. They are beside themselves. The father beats the obstetrician with clenched fists. He curses the nurses and flings himself to the floor bawling. The mother stands up on the table and denounces God. The next day they go home. The lemur eats…

It Only Starts, by Melody Davis

The American road is our art, pure process of leaving. Driving doesn’t end. It only startsas the radio feeds a secret part of the brain that’s always running the American road. Our art has no destination, though it departs, and the eyes, never full, keep filling. Driving doesn’t end. It only starts when the land…

Men at Forty, by Donald Justice

Men at forty Learn to close softly The doors to rooms they will not be Coming back to.At rest on a stair landing, They feel it Moving beneath them now like the deck of a ship, Though the swell is gentle. And deep in mirrors They rediscover The face of the boy as he practices…