Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		My Friend Harry by Kathryn Rantala   My friend Harry writes poems about his nails; the moons. He has this sky about him. Awake at 5 a.m. I barefoot to my study by gauzy window light to write about something that replenishes. The moment fails its tendrils. Back in cold bed covers a white screen vibrates emptily beneath my lids. Harry taps fingersful upon the table where he writes.   Next Poem
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