Winter 2026
Art, like writing, is an invitation to be surprised, to be open to revelation.
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The writer must let his mind celebrate its nuptials in darkness.
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My mother could get me to obey without ever touching me.
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spring came all the same. announced itself like a woodpecker.
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Four words—Your mother passed away—coming from anonymity.
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I have yet to meet a reader who’s read Toby’s work who doesn’t love it.
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This poem showcases Helen's ambition, clarity, and wide talent.
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