Chet Baker’s Return
night club no time lighted juke box music, pockets of muffled chatter from expectant patrons scatter
Paul Austin
Filter / Sort
The Bicyclist
Your sweat falls in drops dotting the trail on a map, in a tour along the river, beside the irrigated
Frank Graham
Cain’s
Down at the music floor where they sell beer with plastic collars and gauges hide under mullets next to
Casie Trotter
Fireflies
Behind the backyard in red gold afternoon, shadows from the freeway wash against the side of forty-year-old homes
David Beebe
Oil Change
Oil filters into fingertips and under my nails, stains my callouses, clothes, driveway. Now it’s five
Randall Weiss
It’s Too Late
For the houseboat in Amsterdam. The snake of blue through the city will wind without me turn to ice
Britton Gildersleeve
Eschatology
The neighborhood dogs are barking again: a chain letter cha-cha-cha that begins blocks away and rolls through the
Markham Johnson
Then
Black Blizzard—hundreds of thousands of years to create the topsoil. Red from Oklahoma, Texas grey, brown Nebraska.
Allison Adelle Hedge Coke
This Alley
May 2013, Oklahoma County Highway’s littered – Broken wasp mid upturned beetles, kindling
Allison Adelle Hedge Coke
Haul
Their two-ton Jimmy staggers now, rolls and wobbles on creaky springs, creeping over berms on a
Nick Norwood
Plane Cowboy
The man in a yellow shirt behind me His head too close to mine above worn navy-blue faux-leather, above the
Shandhini Raidoo
Summer Leaving Oklahoma Before the Advent of Global Warming
Some morning in late September he’d stumble in the diner ragged as a dandelion in a dust storm: ripped
Nick Norwood
Safe
Added a padlock to the fence, I am safe, nine different passwords, I am secure. New model with
Landry Harlan
Dream Catcher
“And where are you from?” The inevitable vacation question. And I want to say Not that Oklahoma, The one you
Xandra Kaste
Hay Maker
By mechanics, lanes of yellow vanish into the bailer’s munching mouth, while out the other end, like some
Sandy Hiortdahl
For This Time, At Least
As darkness descends, this time in-between, when stars are not yet lit, the moon lingering far away, I
Ken Hada
Hope
In the woods, in the deep hole I dug, beneath the power cable and the roots of box elder trees, down among the
Gordon Grice
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