Hey my little Lisbon doorknob: one has one’s house, where one might hum a song from a 1970s sitcom, one’s face gold for the stream, locking one’s doors with the lack of an erection, the erector sets no one would steal, then leaving, taking a sip every time one passes a crow on a fence, while another new rain dumps from the complicated sky, while you staple Clint Eastwood’s face over your own, while another sits on a bench and stares at the bridge, moonlight spiking off his belly, and that’s just the fiction in the new Alice Blue Review, which you’ll want, a want conjoining with your want of the Blue Collar Sun under which it takes place, and in the next seat over is the poetry section, where Jordan Stemplemann—among fine companions—burrows into you with the following: “No matter who / takes over the world, // they will build / within us one stiff // twin called astonishment, / unable to ever unlive.”