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 May 30 Zeno
Maryann I
She bites the pomegranate—
not with hunger,
but with a soft kind of ache,
like remembering a song too late at night.

Juice ribbons down her wrist
in rivulets of rubies,
sanguine silk,

each seed a small beating heart
she swore she’d never swallow.

The orchard hums—
a low, bone-deep thrum of honey-thick dusk,
where shadows sleep in the eyes of foxes,
and the air tastes like cinnamon secrets.

There is gravity in sweetness,
a tug between teeth and truth.
She thinks: love is a fruit with a rind too thin to protect it
and eats anyway.

Inside her chest:
a garden blooming in reverse—
petals folding,
color bleeding into absence,

the sound of something unripening.

She is full now—
of myth, of molten memory,
of something holy and ruinous.
She smiles,
and the world forgets
what season it is.
 May 29 Zeno
nivek
planetary minds bathed in moonbeams
a creature of dust and complexity-
searching for the blessed life of simplicity
born onto a path of discovery
-with a candles flame, an ignited star
for company.
 May 29 Zeno
matt r
maytime,me
 May 29 Zeno
matt r
this air is dry;  summerful
yellow turned dehydrated ,
kind            of           orange ,
slurring      into drier hands.    
       same ones that ran
                    over
my beautiful ribs. beautifully
giftwrapped,edges folded neat.

    i really am so very neat.
 May 29 Zeno
matt r
andromeda
 May 29 Zeno
matt r
rollback,    the dim redness
(that you've been
                                 before)
is breaking over blackness
        ,       your outcrop spine.

realise      splitting starriness;
it is andromeda.            
           She is the most painful
constellation,a cluster hot
                     of nerve endings

relapsing,into dizzy relativity,
that you are (yet to
                                    become)
        still.
                i am all        but still,

everything is spinning
                               so perfectly.
 May 29 Zeno
nivek
words have their ghosts
wandering through books
peeking out at the world

-unnamed spirits
forgotten to history
awaiting resolution

centuries can pass
dust gets thicker
light no longer visible
 May 29 Zeno
Sara Brummer
ABANDONNED GARDEN

There is a clatter of brightness
trembling trough the branches,
as pillars of light fill empty spaces
with fragrance. Rose bushes stand
deep in grass , cobwebs breathe
between in olive trees where
memory lingers in a feathered
breath of bird.

The earth is fragrant
with past seasons and what
was there before . Unknown
is everywhere but there is
no pace outside today.

The sun behind white clouds
smiles on blooming weeds
in their unhurried  spaces.
They let the wind of world
fly through not concerned
about arriving.

Uncertain as a poem,
the garden’s voice,
sometimes a sweet
twitter, sometimes
a whispered  echo,
each word spoken
spinning its own
meaning through
earth and silence.
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