From below the horizon’s muted edge,where the earth softens its ledge,I begin my daily climb one broken rung at a time. It’s not that the sky’s too high,nor that my wings are made in Shanghai.The problem is that I’m preoccupiedwith my feathered quill’s stubborn battle cry; You’re running out of time,and will soon be calcified. ...

Up here,with my head in the clouds,talking to myself is allowed,without hearing the maddening crowd,and I’m free to be clever and proud Then, while I’m flying around,held in my cocoon of sound,the friendly and noisy Corellasenjoy chatting with this odd poet fella Editor: Erynn Crittenden

My mind is flying faster than an arrow  These thoughts come and go Sometimes, they flow and glow Other times, they are lost in the undertow   I am flying away from the encroaching Sahara And the noxious coal-burning smokestack era My eyes are stinging from yesterday’s mascara And my wings feel like the dying leaves of a Monstera  On this polluted ...

They stand on the edge, breathing in the ocean’s smell beneath them, their arms spread out. They take a deep breath, close their eyes; when they open their eyes, the wind captures their blonde hair, and it blows out behind them. On the palm of their hand, which they face upward, orbs of blue magic ...