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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VII, 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

 
Poetry


Nobody for President
Kyle Vaughn

Here's the danger of making
a cloud an absolute:  something
not stone collapses in wind.
We fold and rot immediately,
pale heads vanishing under dirt.

The air between trees, bodied enough
to raise a sickle moon,
is the only one able
to give citizenship to the light.
The sky can't be unbroken with

hands that pass deaf waters.
It is hard to accept
the sovereignty of rivers.
But there stands a human
making speeches in the flood,
mouth full of raindrops
lessened into blades.
Here, among water's roar,
some voice
is mistaken for many.

 

 

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