David Cooke (6 Poems)

Gold Its lack of reaction has made it unique, that and the way it can magnetize fools: forty-niners, Midas, the futures mob— so gung ho, yet always dazzled by it, like urchins dreaming of gilded pavements. Locked in a vault, it validates paper. It’s what the rich cling to when the bubble bursts, smiling at…

Daniel Paul Marshall (6 Poems)

the fire festival men cook muricidae in their shells, on oak wood fires at the entrance to the marquee i can hear the small slugs of meat hiss like slow punctures —the scent of the wood turns my nose inside out. the residents of Hallim-eup get a coupon each for a free lunch—no one checks…