Three from B.J. Soloy

Belly Hearth

Under your cockney
whistle & flute,
tucked in the nook of
your daisy roots,
a little leg-
stretcher, rye, corn juice.


A 27 #2

This breath smells pickled,
kosher. You should
give it a what-for,
give it the old
wet panscratch. Mine
my fillings for gold.


The Hill

Richard Buckner churns,
you weep. Zig-zagged
down the flood plain. De-
toured. Red-wings flag
each perching point,
and wind sings each bag.

One from Emily Anderson. One by me.

Twenty Seven

was three years ago.
Thirty is not
that much different.
Summer's still hot,
I'm still alone
like I always thought.

--Emily Anderson

27 Confession

Since I kicked this and
that, I take a
sour occasional
comfort as I
chew aspirin
tabs one at a time.

--Andy Trebing