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One can hear heaven murmuring in between the lines of francine j. harris’s poems owing to the
Major Jackson, francine j. harris
The life of the black poet.
I was born scarcely before autumn full of night songs—
my screaming body a codex
of hurting. I tried...
But the daydream collapses and time returns us
to corners where hustling boys expire
like comets at...
Matthew Dickman’s melancholic portraits of impoverished white teenagers dazzle me into the always painful, yet...
Matthew Dickman, Major Jackson
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