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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume X, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I
   Volume VII, Issue II
   Volume VIII, Issue I
   Volume VIII, Issue II
   Volume IX, Issue I
   Volume IX, Issue II

 
Poetry


Untitled
Simon Perchik

 

This rotted log yes and no
longs for the stillness
that is not wood though you

are already inside, seated
at a table, a lamp, clinging
the way all light arrives alone

except for the enormous jaws
once shoreline closing in
without water or suddenness

—you lay down a small thing
and the Earth is surrounded, fed
slowly forehead to forehead again.

 

 

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