From the archive
The Incorporated Town and Cold War Clocks
“The train cars are trying to sleep/in the postal town. Purple tracks/forsake concrete footer and loading/dock pad. The pale moon/asks homes to hold the bones.”
The rest is for members.
All proceeds go toward publishing more writers and poets.
Free for 30 days, then $3 a month
Become a member
Publisher's Note:
This work is preserved in Merion West’s archive of articles and poems published from 2016 through early 2025. Explore the archive