Near Belmont

by Jory Mickelson

Past dark fields of winter
wheat, each hill swells and troughs
the talk between my grandmother and me. The further we travel,
the less the landscape changes, just vague
waves in the blooming dark, the pollen
of yellow farmhouse lights. (More …)

Nothing Held

by Jory Mickelson

What it is to run without
restraint away from
anything: the wind, a car horn,

an aspen leaf that flashes
me to flight, to bound past
the boundless field leaving (More …)