Ends on May 1, 2017

Waxwing publishes poems that sing—of the self, but also of the world. We love poems that love language, love it like a lover, and so wrestle and caress and grind and tease, for the pleasure of it but also the weight of it. We love poems that mean something, whether through the quick electric thrill or the long steady haul. We love poems that are living and breathing, and know they will die. Poems that have the stink of the world on them. Poems that are not mysterious, but mysteries. Poems that keep you up at night, and get you out of bed in the morning. Poems that took something of great worth out of the poets who wrote them, so that they could give it to us.

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