I could hear
him, in his defect, in his sweet animal voice, (Mark
Karlins)
screaming:
THERE IS NO BRIDGE! (Andrei
Codrescu)
We could have
called each other out from the key of dead (Bill
Wilson)
like a thing
that weighs. (James
Gaver)
Her hands
busy with birds nails and hammers, (R.
Nemo Hill)
Saturdays at
“Bingo Pat” O’Briens (William Corbett)
she was the
bride on whom the rain did fall. (Stephen
Rodefer)
Love of
nature (Rae
Armantrout)
at its heart
is an adder. (Bruce
McClelland)
Described,
the corresponding sky (Lyn
Hejinian)
and my own
sense of meanness, (Diane
Wakoski)
and the
overly inside pieces (Clark
Coolidge)
flap
recklessly. (Jerome Rothenberg)
Gone are the
glaze; now all hollow to get hallow (Charles
Bernstein)
the old
misfortune of a world that plugs its hope (Juan
Larrea)
as metaphor.
Soft frisbee. Roofers’ mops, (Ron
Silliman)
how the eye
without witnesses continued trembling. (Vladimir
Holan)
Not even art (Paul
Blackburn)
created the
monster nights. (Lorine
Niedecker)
To find and
use a single key is more than enough. (Yuan
Haowen, trans.
Eliot Weinberger)
* A cento composed from
Sulfur Magazine Issue #16
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