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 August Issue



The garden’s quiet and furnished
With night’s upholstery.
The tree sleeps in its branches,
The branches in the tree.

It’s just as I remember it,
Before I caught the plane
Whose cockpit was this bedroom,
Whose runway was this lane.

When I closed these yellow books,
My adolescent eyes
Were caught between the pages
Like bloodless butterflies.

Now threadbare stairs go up to bed
Before me every night.
But I can’t sleep on pillows
That always dream of flight.


Andrew Pidoux is the author of Year of the Lion (Salt, 2010) and winner of an Eric Gregory Award from the UK’s Society of Authors. Recent poems of his have appeared in African American Review, Descant, and Punchnel’s, stories in Litro, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Stockholm Review of Literature, and comics in Forge, Star 82, and Wilderness House.