no.10 (Bance Gossler)

Too many shields have come between our minutes
like Jim Kirk punching through Chekhov's screen.
Spock and Bones all bent up against some burnt planet.

Gene let his cloak off, he rode his ride until the ride rode out.
They say, archetype, and we laugh. We watch and watch.
Uhura's earpiece, her legs, her perfectness on the bridge.

no. 9 (Steve Kirsch)

The white pyramid beacons our way across the river's path
where at some end of some cold vein, we will shuck corn
and let apples cool in the eddy. Walking is not the same
when it is required. Patience grabs at every branch.

When the summer ended, I saw all the years twirled up
in a pumpkin roll - all the minutes in a fist like a burr.
Coming to the end of another warm tongue and lipping
our way to the mouth of a new cold breath is worth it.

I don't remember the tracks in the snow, or the hawk
falling from the plum sun, just the echo if its wings
carving sense into a senseless sky and the the fir points
dipping upward into the cup of endless grey.

no. 8 (Todd Abrams)

I drop the cork and leave the line running
against a birch branch; misinformed
about the day's light, my last worm hanging
from the lip of the river
where if anything makes sense
I will pull a cold fish
from forest's vein and bring it to life
in a cast iron pan.
Drake's and an egg, the rest of the bottle,
the last of the June bugs smacking the screen.
An outboard motor somewhere in the distance
reminding us that even a red sun
is not a stop sign, on the Au Sable.