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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


from There Is No Wayward Palace
Laura Carter

 

Rimbaud says that love needs re-inventing. How to proceed seems like a question for a philosopher. Savant, artist, activist, lover. It makes sense to say it this way. A savant is back at one again, red dots drawn on his right hand. An artist is full of tricks, both light and dark. An activist waits, on haunches, like fog, always surveying sky for a proper time. And a lover—well, what a lover knows is that love overtakes in a way that nothing else can presage.

 

 

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