the rotary dial

best new poetry in form

Weeds are not supposed to grow
but by degrees
some achieve a flower, although
no one sees.

From the October Issue


Fashion Forward


Plaid is all the rage in Purgatory.
Paradise is a periwinkle sock.
In Limbo, the infant eschews pink & blue
for the darkest red diaphanous smock.

Down in Hell, black is the new black. Also
the old black. It goes with everything.
Tattered swatches of houndstooth cling
to two out of three Cerberean mouths.

Valhalla’s a faded concert jersey:
Iron Maiden, unwashed & quite holy.
The undying cottons of Elysium
turn dingy, but only very slowly.

Skin, it seems, is always ready to wear.
Eternity wants a tailored look.
A seaming. Flares, cuffs, eyelets, hooks.
Skulls bending toward their boutonnieres.


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