Featured Poem: Makeshifts

By Chase Twichell

Nothing has a name it can’t
slip out of. The waterfall is solid ice
by late November; the white pines
vanish under snow that’s
blue in the morning, pink at dusk.

Here’s a little bouquet—ice
and evergreen and sun; three moments
arranged for human looking,
though it’s only the husks of their names
that I’ve gathered and paralyzed.
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