An independent literary press featuring poetry and short fiction at the confluence of Charles Simic and Ray Bradbury. We publish books and a periodic digital magazine, Hidden Peak Review.


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“No one remembers.

But I remember, under the elm’s cool awning,

watching you watch the clouds.”




Let’s take a break. Let’s take five. No, seven, in honor of the seventh day. No, in honor of the cigarette, which takes exactly seven minutes to smoke all the way down. Let’s call it quits. Let’s take a liquid … Continue reading Quits

One Week After

The flowers have wilted now. Burnt orange half moon pistils burst forth from a sea of darkening, lily white. Amid the detritus living on the kitchen counter: discarded dirty socks, molding dish sponge, half-empty casserole pan, unsigned school assignments, sits … Continue reading One Week After

Southbound Amtrack

As the train sends ripples into the Hudson, I imagine bloodwood carvings awakening beneath the surface to be baptized in mud, to commune with an assembly of tadpoles. I think of the components of a river when I am traveling, … Continue reading Southbound Amtrack

A Dead Thing

IT IS A HUMID NIGHT in D.C. and the air feels clotted and dense, like it’s on the verge of hemorrhaging outside instead of raining. It’s sick air, damp and shameless; the perfect conditions for reminiscing. I slow my pace … Continue reading A Dead Thing

Changing Seasons

The forest is carpeted with October. The ochre, red, and gold hold an old dog firm as he limps through the dry crackling. Horse tails swat at the last of the flies, and the geese pond hop across the county. … Continue reading Changing Seasons

The Prophecy

Because I’m the seer deep within the tower, preferring the whip to the prayer cords, the rough wool & hard stone to the downy pillow, it’s too easy to hear it from you, such prophecies of who I am & … Continue reading The Prophecy

fans over knobs

She was right, you do resemble the moon. A vision. Dim light The opening of a mouth, a door, a soul I reach my fingers through your corridors “Am I interrupting?” It’s a delicate space, pink rooms filled with glass … Continue reading fans over knobs

Working Title

Sean Doherty slammed the big glass door open and stormed across the lobby toward his office. “Sean?” Terry, the receptionist, looked up in surprise. “Trouble with Cramer again?” “With Cramer? Never. He’s a paragon of clienthood! A saint!” Sean threw … Continue reading Working Title

Private Eye

THE MAN BEHIND the Venetian blinds never knew whether it was sunrise or sunset. He would wake up in his leatherette armchair, or on the ratty sofa he kept for naps. He would wake up next to his soft pack … Continue reading Private Eye

On Writing

Set out to gather words like field flowers, vine ripe vocabulary hung low from crooked branches, and all too often, I’ve failed the harvest. Can’t compose from stocked shelves, would rather see those redwoods at the edge of flame, bright … Continue reading On Writing

Sudden Illumination

Clinging to a garden wall, I warn axes going up across the field to go dark, to burn far less. They have control of everything and really only answer to themselves. In a crazy manner, I crash into a crab … Continue reading Sudden Illumination

Looking Ahead

I don’t have great expectations for the distant future. My woman keeps telling me that fifty years from now there won’t be an “us.” Just the usual engineering feats of tiny underground critters. So I’m making no plans for the … Continue reading Looking Ahead

Under Porch Light

Brother, we have grown apart. No more jumping on the beds. Then when your wife spoke of her troubles I saw your hands move, moths without flame, exactly as our father’s did while mother complained how it was too late … Continue reading Under Porch Light


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