WHEN SHE LEAVES AT DAWN by John Grey     It's dawn.  Either people leave  or petals open  but seldom  both.  At least,  I've just the luxury  of my eyes  and a garden full of  color  precludes a car  rolling down the driveway,  a hand waving   in  reverse,  It's dawn  from the tip of the light  to the last of the  shadow.  Sleep knows it,  cowers beneath the bed sheets.  Coffee is  aware,  pours itself into cups.  But a beauty outdoors  has no say in    a beauty indoors.  Petals behave in  accordance with the sun.  But  which of them  is Christine.  And I am not the sun  apparently.   Bio: Australian born poet, playwright, musician. Latest book is      “What Else Is There” from Main Street Rag. Recently in The         English Journal, Northeast, Pearl and the Journal Of The American          Medical Association.  He has also been featured in this publication.

den of thieves   by Christopher Mulrooney       it is trans-shipped mostly elsewhere all this loot piled high in careless margins with a red check mark on the manifest signifying all told whither it was to go annulled re-routed and stiffly all this merchandise simply gives up throws up its hands bargains for the basement in another town another chain store with a feeling air of detachment in the service shop and in the bazaars they roll up in the carpet merchants from Zanzibar and sell them in Zozobra        Bio: Christopher Mulrooney has written poems and translations in Dead Horse Review, Sawbuck, Pinstripe Fedora and Marginalia, criticism in Elimae, Parameter and The Film Journal, and a volume of poetry called notebook and sheaves.

One   by Daniel E Wilcox So awe fulled the birthing              of God's presence, new cauled              in humble manger's destiny,   The base and apex of              a starred cave's presents              of all future festivals Yet abandoned, forsaken to              the crowned world's nails,              every man's cursedness;   Farthest reach of faith              this Apocalypso dancer              crosses the Cosmos,   Morning us night-less;              he compassions Earth              ever peopling Heaven, Emptying the pitiless bottom              zeroing Apollyon               into ever's Now              Beloved one, Yeshua              child of the  masses              point man for us all.      Bio: Wilcox earned his degree in Creative Writing from Cal State Long Beach. He is a former literature teacher who has farmed in the Middle East and worked as a volunteer on the Cheyenne Indian Reservation. His writing has appeared in The Other Side, small magazines, and school publications.

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