In Carbondale by Cliff Fell

Consider the glue
that holds all this together,
be it the cold light
of the diamond in the mine,
the gold in its seam
below the forest
or the shale oil reserves
of the Arctic Circle�
each in its way a party hat
that pays homage
to DJ culture
or signals the slow
corruption of thought.
But right from the start
let it be said
that to our knowledge
the art of the oil slick

The quiet life at Glenfinnan (1877, Runs 458/468) by Robynanne Milford

Aotearoa Runaway by Leilani Tamu

they searched for my bodyin local parks and schoolsthey cut awaythe long grassdaring to hopefor a signan angelic proclamationor at least a shoe or a sockwhile on the other side of townI was high in the skyhanging out with some random guyand my mate Johnnyin the backseatlast name: Walkerhe was one real treatthen they found memessed up and bruisedtheir sweet island girlgone bush feralforget

'Darkroom' by Erica Goss, with an interview about poetry and technology

In
the spirit world

backlit
by old stars



dreams
sound like

water
falling



we
are inside

and
outside

at
the same time



trays
clack like old bones

as
faces rise from wet paper



their
deep cloudy eyes

and
conquered mouths

appear
between our hands



lips
and chins a blurry landscape

touched
with the faint light

of
a slow exposure



switch
off the red

and
exhale

we
stand on