Alison Armstrong-Webber 

We  listen to The Green Hand. You adjust the side mirror,
a  trickle of moonlight, a wavelet, laps at the wheel wells.
The  night air, a door ajar,

Bob Bradshaw

She was sitting
on a hill smoking weed, when the moon,
hovering over her
was eclipsed by a disc of light.

Dale Patterson

as if I am watched,
a presence, intrusion,
a beaconing finger 

LaVern Spencer McCarthy

But yesterday, the sights that came from there
revealed an alien with purple eyes,

Geoff Sawers

but she's rich. She's the mother of moths.

Geoff Sawers

I pick up the radio sometimes long after midnight
in my metal-filled teeth, I wish I could tune them.