Drydocks
︎︎︎ Paul Franz
︎ Sept 9, 2026
This spring day, autumnal
still with its rotted leaves:
pavement an interlace of bricks the color of meat and spoiled meat;
that garbage bag the wind pulled inside-out,
flapping from the can’s rim, like a spent condom, flagging...
so little a thing, to live, when it comes down to it.
The drydock that a month ago, dehiscent,
beckoned today is
brimful, as if calling away from tasks,
as if nothing were left undone.
still with its rotted leaves:
pavement an interlace of bricks the color of meat and spoiled meat;
that garbage bag the wind pulled inside-out,
flapping from the can’s rim, like a spent condom, flagging...
so little a thing, to live, when it comes down to it.
The drydock that a month ago, dehiscent,
beckoned today is
brimful, as if calling away from tasks,
as if nothing were left undone.
FOR DISPLAY ONLY
︎︎︎ Aaron Fagan
︎ Sept 8, 2026
When I tried to be as clear
As possible to make a point,
Your small hands showed me
The less I say, the more it will
Mean—in your eyes it takes
A long time to walk home,
Water the garden, and open
The door where I will turn
To kiss you as our bodies
Go on talking into the night
Without us there to umpire
These unnamable motors.
As possible to make a point,
Your small hands showed me
The less I say, the more it will
Mean—in your eyes it takes
A long time to walk home,
Water the garden, and open
The door where I will turn
To kiss you as our bodies
Go on talking into the night
Without us there to umpire
These unnamable motors.
Aaron Fagan is the author of Atom and Void (Princeton University Press, Princeton & Oxford, 2025), Pretty Soon (Pilot Press, London, 2023), A Better Place Is Hard to Find (The Song Cave, New York, 2020), Echo Train (Salt, London, 2010), and Garage (Salt, Cambridge, 2007).
Also by Aaron: INSIDE WORLD
INSIDE WORLD
︎︎︎ Aaron Fagan
︎ Sept 3, 2026
What a kid I was.
Practicing violin
In front of a roaring
Fire. My old man
Walked in. He was
Furious. We didn’t
Have a fireplace.
Practicing violin
In front of a roaring
Fire. My old man
Walked in. He was
Furious. We didn’t
Have a fireplace.
Folk Religion 2
︎︎︎ Eric Angal
︎ Sept 2, 2026
The consort cries out:
‘What is to be had after the frisson is over?’
Perhaps the feeling could be stretched,
and made to accommodate us both, for a while—
and if it can’t, then yes,
might as well level the blade
directly between my shoulders,
and let the blood run pooling in my boots—
until then, listen:
hear the merry band come
tumbling down the mountainside,
like so many lost dogs
running towards the sound of water.
‘What is to be had after the frisson is over?’
Perhaps the feeling could be stretched,
and made to accommodate us both, for a while—
and if it can’t, then yes,
might as well level the blade
directly between my shoulders,
and let the blood run pooling in my boots—
until then, listen:
hear the merry band come
tumbling down the mountainside,
like so many lost dogs
running towards the sound of water.
Halloween
︎︎︎ Katerina Waverley
︎ Sept 1, 2026
You always-walking waves of men,
whose footsteps sound our stony deep,
walk lightly now above our heads,
or you may disturb our sleep.
whose footsteps sound our stony deep,
walk lightly now above our heads,
or you may disturb our sleep.