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Sea Breach by Jonathan Durie

NEIL has fallen into the rhythm of the local paper. He’d worked in a bigger office in the capital. He didn’t miss the hassle. He's a writer with no particular ambition and so this is solid, easy work; bin collections, local council meetings, guess the year black-and-white photographs. Neil checks the grammar and never misses a comma.
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Louie Crew Clay 's Poetry Cycle. for Squawk Back

1. The Fan Blows Heavy Gardenia

The fan blows heavy gardenia
from the open window.
The carillon sounds a tinny quarter.

The season of the stone. by DragoĊŸ Niculescu

I was standing on the high, rocky hill, on a refuge like a big slab
and I was looking down the river and its banks far away, on the horizon,
at the realm of the other hills.

MY TRUTH & *others by Edward Lee (*: not many others, just 2 others)

Lie to me, she said,
your truths bore me.

I looked at her, searching her eyes for humour,
but only found dead seriousness
echoing her words.

with by Heller Levinson

roam...      calypso
algae,              furring
smelling Monk
friendly in the dairy shelving
finning the mesmeric mermaid wake
on the road to resolute road
the untangling              barley/hops
tangos stalky & refined

Community Supported Agriculture by Sam Spurlock

“There are just a few things,” said the good farmer with a knowing smile, “that'll make your garden grow. First, plant lovingly. Give your sprouts room to grow. To stretch out and take root.” “Second,” he said, taking off his dusty cap and leaning in closely to my bare shoulder, dusting it gently with Beam-laced breath, breath that spoke of a thousand sunrises, “Don't ever bullshit what you put into the ground. You've got to do it with all the love and trust and water and honesty you can muster. There isn't any other way. You don't plant roses and treat them like they were corn.”