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   Front Cover:
   Chuck Close
   Bill T. Jones (detail), 2008
   B&W Polaroid Diptych mounted on aluminum,
   Courtesy of the artist and Pace Gallery

   OTHER PEOPLE . . . les autres. So far as philosophy
   is concerned, they may not even exist. Certainly
   we’ve all met folks that — for all we know — might
   well have been automatons. . . .

   For Jim Foley, October 18, 1972 - August 19, 2014,
     a poem by Benjamin Balthaser

   When I think of Jim I think of the low, humid desert
     where the last veteran from Spain
   talks to his hands about what he reads in the paper:
     the monarch butterflies are dying. . . .

   Blue Handed, a play by Ah@d Ha'@m
   (Breaking the Silence
   Testimony 41, Hebron)
A Play for 2 Voices

   1, I'm thinking about hands

   The hands that touch
   The hands that soothe . . .

   from Autisms, stories by Giacomo Sartori,
    translated by Frederika Randall

   My present publisher, when I telephone him, is silent
   for a few seconds. Then, in a very loud voice, he says
   he can’t hear me. PRONTO! PRONTO! I CAN’T HEAR!
   he shouts, just like someone who hears very badly.
   Then he hangs up. . . .

   Second Thoughts on a Winter Afternoon,
     a poem by Chen Chen
Your mother is sick & all I can think of is how sick’s
   also a word for cool, like ill, though maybe ill

   is becoming outdated, & sick too, & actually it’s a lie
   I can only think of that, I can also think of my mother . . .

   "I have only you in this world . . .,"
selected letters of Gabriela Mistral,
     translated by Velma García-Gorena

This work is a translation  of selected correspondence
   between the Chilean poet and Nobel Laureate Gabriela
   Mistral (born Lucila Godoy Alcayaga, 1889–1957) and
   her companion and executor, the North American writer
   Doris Dana. . . .

   When We Were Boys, a story by Eric Severn
   Some freak storm howled down from Canada, hammered
   the spine of the Cascades, boomeranged west and ripped
   across Puget Sound, dumping record snow that brought
   Olympia,Washington, to a dead halt. . . .

   Dancing Among Schoolchildren,
an essay by Catherine Gunther Kodat
We’d been at it all day, every day, for the past five days.
   It was a summer intensive, after all; being pushed was
   part of the deal.Still, we were grateful for the rest. . . .

   But to Return Again to My Going Home,
a poem by Kay Cosgrove
MARY did the horse liver taste good? Like wild flesh like god in
   your mouth? Now listen when you’re far enough from home
   when you are no longer you, MARY, you can hardly bear to
   think. You are so distracted by sorrow. MARY. . .