juste

John Swofford is forty-six and and lives in Rex, Georgia. He was featured in a L’Exposition show that was shown […]

Here, an unlikely gurgle from between two rocks, becomes a stream wiggling its way  through narrow rifts and passages, a

Walk into the studios of the Torpedo Factory andyou’ll see the potters in residence surrounded by pressure.When they sit at

In our living room at night,  curtains drawn, a light  creeps over the rug,  widens around   a magazine stand.   How

The canopies that cover the street obscure my vision, so it’s not until he’s upon me that I spot him. 

His eyes are sloped  and sad gray blue. He looks away  in situ frameless. I see a field. I leave

there is a paper cut on the skin of my soul, the past beats inside me like a second heart.

It’s Sunday, the morning after our first night back in our old apartment with Daddy, and the place is quiet.

after Archibald MacLeish  The sun hovers on the horizon before  creeping over mountains and meadows  over oceans hills houses and