Passing

Nicole Hur

Last night, I watched you pick a persimmon, your hands hovering beneath the hot bulb. You look softer as a ghost, a paper lantern fickering. I wonder where you are now. Perhaps still feeding stray cats— or even reborn as one. In a past life, I was a dog person & a niece. But now I scan the neighborhood cats for a resemblance. Is it wrong to wish you will remain this way forever? Unfading and fickering. I fear what God does to non-believers. Remember when you set the kitchen on fre? Your face, pale as a moon, fickering beneath the hot glow. I prefer it this way—before the fre, before God can move the fame.

Moderate Fog

Lily O'Byrne

Single man cold morning

Springing dog

Check the weather app and make decisions

Warning: moderate fog Well then, Just sit and look

Be overcome by the sight of

Single man cold morning

Springing dog the love that exists between thoughtless kicking of pebble onto shore

And bounding stampede in answer four strong paws chasing the shallow foam

Fur will be towelled off by careful warm hands upon return home

Close eyes and wish hard

To be:

That dog seal bird

A knitted scarf piece of fresh bread graffti on old wall, chipped, Painted over.