plesh

last to wake, last to sleep
each day, unalived a little more
by longliners, systems & regimes
with too many nets, hooks & means
cozened in the sunken sands
of befuddlement & dreams

braced for the descaling
gaping at the moon’s reflection
why is the only way up
ever found on another shore
have i not already unalived
a thousand wretched times before

alive’s become harder to eddy into
where have all the minnow gone
when algae tastes like rotting meat
dare one muster to tell the deep
from whence one’s shadow sprang & ends
of expectations unalived midstream

braced for the descaling
gaping at the moon’s reflection
nothing known could anchor me here
but one oneself, so what can i do
but alive somehow through another night
in hopes dawn bedews e’er full sweet

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2026

latent spring

winter
i hibernate
under your eyelashes
daily breathing the petrichor
of tears

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2026

sublunary shedding

another deer in the land of plenty
resplendent in summer coat so red
antlers adorned with aconite wreath
languid eyes fash the colour of lead

how stark he peers up into the star forge
where the ancient mother rests her crown
her fatigued breasts lift slowly, heavy
salted milk into mountain gorge drips down

crows are laying into three rivers creep
lawless with the weight of expectation
mayhap they were sent to test moral strength
in misfortune’s midst & tall temptation

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

yet it hurts

clown clouds
all kites unfurled
jubilance & church bells
but then she hied for good that day
or ill

fain i’d be okay
could i smile the pain away
left by my bride fae

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2026

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Sweeping The Floor. by George MacDonald

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor,
Sweep the dust, pick up the pin;
Make it clean from fire to door,
Clean for father to come in!

Mother said that God goes sweeping,
Looking, sweeping with a broom,
All the time that we are sleeping,
For a shilling in the room:

Did he drop it out of glory,
Walking far above the birds?
Or did parson make the story
For the thinking afterwards?

If I were the swept-for shilling
I would hearken through the gloom;
Roll out fast, and fall down willing
Right before the sweeping broom!

by GEORGE MACDONALD (1824-1905)
Public Domain Poetry