Roshelle Amundson

Serena Mira Asta

Terry Bebertz

James Byrne

Joshua Fischer

Gail Gates

James Henderson

Adam Hill

Peter Laine

Alice Lundy Blum

Tawny Michels

Dawn Nissen-Schachtner

Altamish Osman

Rebekah Pahr

January Rain

Sally Reynolds

Donna Ronning

Jer Rucinski

Jake Ryan

Kah Shepard

Laura Sourdif

Cat Usher

Jonah Volheim

Music from the Lupine Sea

A memory of you slips inside, establishes colony.
From empty edifice to besmirching host,
with or without invitation,
you will never be disengaged.
Perhaps I can never return home.

In perpetuity the seal is broken.
Some eternal mother, some transmission,
a clearance of the conduit, sensuous evacuation and reciprocation:
such are my elixirs, and none others.



Preset Numbers Six and Eighteen

There is a radio station that I sometimes tune to,
preset numbers six and eighteen,
that washes me with comfort.
It’s not the music they play—although,
on rare occasions, the software calls into service
a song I remember liking several years before.
The real reason I sometimes listen to
preset numbers six and eighteen
is that its transmitter is across the street from your home.
When I spend a weekend with you,
frequently excusing myself to your balcony,
after dark I see the array of towers blinking.
At home, alone in my bedroom,
after dark when I sometimes tune into
preset numbers six and eighteen,
I can recall—without even closing my eyes—
the sight of the flashing red lights,
and know that I will see you again soon.
I can remember years before, together with you,
far away from the red light array;
and I am thankful that a song in the night
can find its way from across your street
to my radio, tuned into
preset numbers six and eighteen.



Twin Cities Night Sky

Following three hours at the pool in the morning,
under the furnace of the summer sun,
the weather turned sour:
the wind shifted the building slightly off its foundation.

As the storm rolled to the east,
standing on the balcony,
to the left were festival fireworks:
a thousand flash bulbs a thousand feet high.
Looking north, forward, three radio towers
like enormous electric apple trees growing out of the marsh,
foreground to search lights in the distance.
To the east, the right, were remnants of the storm,
lightning that occasionally outshined the fireworks.

Such wild, fickle nature and baroque humanity
define the character of this flyover territory.


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Adam Hill has a Bachelor of Arts degree in social science from Metropolitan State University. He currently lives in the Twin Cities, works in insurance claims management, and sneaks in some reading and writing whenever possible. Adam's mission in life is to earn a Ph.D. in sociology and teach at a liberal arts university.