A poem by BENJAMIN CAMPBELL.   Well, the walls enclose our place in this pub – We like it, at least.   A round is called for, to clink and give thanks for cheap Yorkshire drinks –   down through the gold O of a shouted laugh guffawed at a gaffe.     Tomfoolery. We see autumn orange of wilderness dales   roll within our ales. It’s shrinking, this band of merry young men.   Perhaps that’s why we cling to our habits like ancient tabards –   the sign of our time and space, briefly bound before the end of the round.     Featured Image Source: unsplash.com

Last Call

A poem by IVY GAO.     plucked from the depths of the cosmos, snug as a pea, pearl-soft, toes to the moon, mind a starry sea. a twitchy hatchling, a tickly tadpole, a wriggling fish, soft as cookie dough. damp as a lilypad bathed by a sun-shower, velvety as the belly of a cherry-flower. slick as raw yolk, and twice as sunny, jumpy as a wood clock, pink as a bunny. hairless as an onion, a tulip bud scampering across the sky, a happy bug. warm as a kiss in the morning mist, a loaf of bread rising, damp with yeast. in the midsummer sun, a springy sprout curled like a question mark, tummy to the clouds.     Featured image courtesy of unsplash.com

i’m baby