Smooth Still

The orange ranunculus
dropped its petals

like a soft feather war—
a dead fire bird,

a phoenix on the ground,
smooth still like the milk

puddles, lining the sink.
They boiled a thing

and it remained,
like homesickness

like depression, like ants
coming in from the rain.

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August

August It is no easier to escape August than January – late summer lassitude bows the asters, curls the sunflowers just as the blizzard quiets winter. My hammock is my sled hurtling with frogs in first fall of alder leaves, swinging over plums fried on the patio, watching the squirrel choose soft figs over peanuts. […]

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Bees

David Chorlton was born in Austria, grew up in rainy Manchester in England, and after spending most of the 1970s in Vienna he moved to Arizona. Since arriving in Phoenix he has pursued his writing, and been active in various capacities in the poetry world. The Bitter Oleander Press recently published his translations from the poetry […]

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