..:: 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


Simon Perchik


As if the paint poured across
could stave off rot, circle down
though this gate heads back

once it leaves your arms –by itself
whitening the trees already stone
certain you will come here forever

bring twigs, let them sweeten
soften on the ground you bite into
struggling to float, unable to breathe

or unfasten her skirt –your mouth
oozing the way mornings arrive
to dry, kept moist by these dead

and berries dressed as roots and grass
surrounded, filled with the taste
from her eyelids not yet flowers.



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