Brooklyn Baggett

It is February-cold in New York,
and everywhere
buildings spew their warm contents
like god-whales: stone and metal.
Dense clouds in the distance,
manifest purple-white
between emptiness
and open pipes,
Plume straight up––
so cold even the wind can’t move. 
Vanishing above the last form of itself
into the unshaped sky:
carried off like spent emotions.

Submit your work.

We want fresh, new voices from those who have historically had little to no available platform. Visit our Submission page for complete guidelines.