..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume X, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..

..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: 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
   Volume X, Issue I


         After Rimbaud
David McAleavey


The place they hand out brilliant ideas is pretty well hidden, and the people who work there know many disguises.

          It's hot and bright the way a foundry's lit. Nothing but headlines behind the building, headlines that have been read to tatters, though a deep understanding remains elusive. A flock of unusual birds sloops by and vanishes, maybe parakeets.

          The precision of tent pegs entering a grassy ledge near a mountain stream full of rainbow trout offers unexpected reassurance,

          The way astonishment sparks out from a mother's fur coat to the child being left behind, who another day seeks the closet to touch the coat again, as if against a future loss, a more terrible one.



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