CURRENTS

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Five Vases
Three poems called Love and one called Matador
Notes on Red Heart Emoji
Obscene Gaping Hole: A Review of Catherine Breillat’s Romance
Five works by Chloe Rees
horizontal business after e.e. cummings
Five exerpts from praxinscope
Okul Güzeli
Love In Chelsea
Tapestry Trials: An Interview with Rusty Janardan on Weaving
Memory of you, kiss me new in the spring pool It was pink, Yellow 
Love in Chelseaby Adam Judah Krasnoff


Last night the moon undressed New Jersey

and licked salt into her industrial wounds.



We spoke little of love or inconvenience

but wept to find purplish bougainvillea



overgrowing the balustrades of our lips

wet from warmth or sex or reticence



or Chablis. In other words—boredom,

ecstasy, late-late-spring’s misty palm



like an abattoir fat with lavender & loam.

Your eyes, two hills like breasts in the dark.



Let’s go to the Frick tomorrow and poke fun

at Frank O’Hara the whole time. (Someday



I’ll love the Polish Rider.) Let’s forget

everything we say and remember in a decade



rereading our wrinkliest most besotted letters.

Forget disco, forget the couples nose-to-nose 



in Toulouse-Lautrec—this is the real bright

age of lovesickness and debt. Let’s press



our eyes into wine and go walking in the light.

The pigeons remember Lorca’s balconies



and fall. In a jilted wife’s clouded pearl

the May rain is grinning like a new knife.