Category Archives: Reprint

elegy

when the sky                         falls             catch its                         diamonds             on your                         wrists                                                       so I                         can find you             in the jar of black clay This is a reprint of work originally published in First Literary Review-East. Erik Fuhrer holds an MFA from the … Continue reading

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listen

your body is too small to build a river from therefore: shudder of flies what is the time cold blue around the lip of the curve of the stroke of light across from: glass too fogged to see through thread … Continue reading

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the dust

            is palpable tastes like licking the road             faces dry like lips                               like the cracked cheeks                               of a charcoaled body                         air can do that you know:                  BURN             that is why                  we must tongue the rain                                                                                     when it bursts                                                             and glut our soft skin      so … Continue reading

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Cold Feet

Along the edge of the ice, where the water is not still and will not freeze despite the winter, stands a goose and her mate. All around them are small, familiar mounds. The night snow has settled upon these mounds … Continue reading

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Films About Ghosts

“If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts.”—Adam Duritz Skin flakes fell. Blood baked on the hot asphalt. The salty, metallic stench of sweat wafted in the summer air as the zombie shambled, chasing the frazzled sheriff … Continue reading

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There’s No Quiet in Her Silence

unless you consider the wail of a glacier as it splits down the middle under the shimmer of Aurora Borealis, the crack of lightning striking the crook of a branch so thick it creaks and crackles on its slow fall … Continue reading

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Death Mask in Red for Allen Ginsberg: April 5, 1997

Poetry is a stop sign—             either you get it or you don’t.             Surprisingly few do. After all, how many drivers                         ever really come             to a complete stop? This is a reprint of work originally published in Lāhaina Noon. Eric Paul … Continue reading

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