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Mark Cunningham

Striped Cucumber Beetle

For a few moments in the deep overcast of late afternoon, the creek-bank ferns and my Gatorade glowed the same green. The light from the Earth goes out into space, hits the sun, and makes it shine.

Wedge-shaped Beetle

When I say, "I can feel the toxins in my brain," I know I'm wrong. There are no nerves in the brain. But the sentence itself is toxic.

Mailbox

27 February 2006
Vol. 5, No. 4
poetry

You may already have won $10,000!

That's not what you'd hoped


to sift from passing traffic, no…

Comb

25 February 2006
Vol. 5, No. 4
poetry

The first was a fish skeleton.

But you don't want

the top of your head


to dart and shift

without cease.

Starfish

2 December 2003
Vol. 3, No. 4
poetry, prose poem

Dreams that no matter what button you push, the floors keep flicking past, 33, 34, 35, that you're walking on a long bridge, no land in sight…

Straw

2 December 2003
Vol. 3, No. 4
poetry, prose poem

Not hay. Too singular. Not chaff, not grain. Something Pre-Socratic about its attraction to living heat, stable dung. Not lace. Not grass-whistle…

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