Contributor: Jim Zola

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powder that is crusted on the surface
drifting still remembered forgotten
that falls in large wet flakes that falls in small flakes
melted and refrozen marked by wolves
marked by man blowing packed down in beards
melted mixed with mud mixed with husky shit
crusted on top but soft underneath
that looks blue in the early morning
between your fingers or toes little balls
that cling to fur drifted indoors slush
the idea mounded on dead bodies
that never reach the ground shaken down
from objects in the wind shaken down
and then mixed with sky-falling angels
that looks like it's falling upward
that makes halos sparkling with sunlight
sparkling with moonlight sparkling with headlights
mixed with breath night falling on water drifts
containing the imprint of crazy lovers
swirling that drives you nuts that blinds you
that can be sculpted into the delicate
corsages in the mouth that hides the whole
village drifts you fall into and die
avalanche that burns your scalp and eyelids
glazed with ice ordinary outside
my door where the world has melted


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Jim Zola is a poet and photographer living in North Carolina. He currently works as a children's librarian. He has done lots of other stuff too.

Contributor: Jim Zola

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Buster manipulates his bowtie into mustache and goatee
Heironymus sees the Virgin proliferate in snow clouds
Buster windmills past the open station door
Heironymus tempts with the anus of a mouse
Buster winces at the thought of clubs and blueness
Heironymus mixes blood with silt to smear his face
Buster mouths the canons of the lonely
Heironymus passes the stone of madness
Buster smiles when the camera stops
Heironymus forgets the four last things
Buster likes my kitchen walls
yellow wallpaper that looks like paint
Heirmonymus steals my tweezers
saving them for late at night
Heironymus laughs at my dying
Buster wants to steal my wife


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Jim Zola is a poet and photographer living in North Carolina. He currently works as a children's librarian. He has done lots of other stuff too.

Contributor: Jim Zola

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like birds touching
the tips of branches

in the orchard I hear them
a symphony of bones
I see trees in my hands
the cold

tempts me
when my eyes close

nighthawks turn
black

over the sweetgum
on this side

bugbane blooms out
I cross the river

slip slide
the mud

grasp tangleweed
patience

is the utensil I lack
I call across black water

and hear
my voice

there’s a door
in the river's wagging tongue
a porch
my love climbs

on every step
she adjusts her skirt


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Jim Zola is a poet and photographer living in North Carolina. He currently works as a children's librarian. He has done lots of other stuff too.