We believe students and readers everywhere deserve a great and free modern library, inside of which they can get deliriously, entertainingly, profoundly lost. And found.

Stories

Poetry
There is a baby in the square, plumped down on Papa’s thigh.
Poetry
Raw, glistening—god’s design. Her newborn flesh-on-the-bone.
Poem of the Week
It comes as no surprise that everything is flying toward one point.
Poem of the Week
The blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches notate the dawn.
Poem of the Week
This poem weaves human and earthly hurt together in just a few short lines.
Poetry
The trees were a sign from the devil, a warning of the terror to come.
Poem of the Week
She is a stalk, exhausted. She will surround these bones with flesh.
Poem of the Week
Watch out. That we thought him gone only proves his wily knowledge.
Poetry
I open the gift: a small ocelot, its mouth a cave, pearl teeth waiting.
Poem of the Week
Men veer into the earth and don’t come out. Silent choirs of canaries roost in a forest of chimneys.
Poem of the Week
If you didn’t listen you would think it was a cry for help or sympathy.
Poem of the Week
The billows murmur at our feet, where the earth and ocean meet.
Poetry
Some women have all the tit out hip out flat of the hand & tone of voice.
Poem of the Week
I walk and I rest while the eyes of my dead look through my own.
Poem of the Week
Black wings thrash in trees, then strafe me low, my head their devil.
Poetry
Meghan Dunn
Classics
I have to say I am relieved it is over: at the end I could feel only pity.
Poem of the Week
We went flying without a map as naked astronauts often do.
Poem of the Week
In that great darkness could I explain anything, anything at all.
Poem of the Week
We buy a bag of cockles and three crabs, all female, sweet with egg.
Poetry
The underworld reached out for your hand and found payment.
Poem of the Week
The danger of the shirt—always, every moment, it is so obvious.
Poem of the Week
The day holds a cup of milk and sits on the couch, legs tucked up.
Poem of the Week
In the truck’s bed, resting where a dog’s might—the dead deer’s head.
Poetry
However hard I trudge and search I cannot find the hills I have climbed.
Poetry
Decay enters us through the eyes. As always I lose focus.
Poem of the Week
The flail is raised high, back bent in echo of the boys’ backs.
Poem of the Week
When I saw her, I was witness and weapon both, charging at her.
Poetry
The goose cannot see the North but knows exactly where it lies.
Poetry
When I cried the tears felt so ineffective next to the ocean.