by Adrielle Perkins

There is no absolute truth.
I find frenzied universes
burning, churning, swirling
in my soup bowl,
but, for you
it yields only steam.
There is no absolute truth.
And that is absolutely true.

by Ralph Malachowski

Doorways with claustrawork, interstices;
doors of a mosque, a primary school, a theatre, cafes,
become a marketplace.

Façades of monasteries, granaries,
adorned by parabolas of mud plaster.

Mud supporting a staircase,
creating vaults, in turn create a loggia.

In the white light, an alcove with bas-reliefs, ablutionaries;
pigeon towers, malkaf and dovecotes, colossi of Memnon.

Necropolis of mud beds designed to protect against scorpions,
Surrounded by sabras — connecting doorways with Israelis with prickly pears
on the path first to Nubia then Cairo.

by Daryl Muranaka

A monkey patrols the lookout
for scraps, picking through trash.
Sticky, brown syrup
clings to his soft gray fur.

Regally, he perches on the roof
of our car. He takes in the view
while calmly disregarding
all our noisy protests.

by Scott Owens

Two doves,
or one,
and a spot on my window
ride the winded wire,
one, spreading its wings
from time to time
to stay on top,
the other, absolute
in its ideal sense
of balance,
needing no wings,
and going nowhere.

by Iolanda Scripca

I don’t have time to watch it more
- the crooked clock of ironed past -
I don’t believe I can feel spring
Unless I grab your hand and jump

Together in the blossom maze
Perhaps we bring ourselves alive
In poison-free redwoods up north
And secret Jacaranda wonders.

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