by Vincent O'Connor




Rural Joy


children in halos of

dirt, sweat, and sun

laugh as rivulets of

viscous peach juice flow

down their chins

and dragonflies flit by

on diaphanous wings


close by dogs raise dust on

parched gravel roads

as they trot past tasty

color gardens

grinning green and ripe





a black line



The Plural of “Beef” is “Beeves”


the things

you learn when a

pandemic is lapping at

your doorstep

and you’ve dug so far into

the internet


you’ve staked a claim

on a prime piece of

property and started

your own little

farm of fantastical facts


convoluted conspiracies




a black line


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