..:: 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


It's never dry –another gust
though this elevator is carried
the way you count backward

for hours and the door flies open
lets in a sea half hillside
half rising through the floor

–you walk in to sleep, begin
with the sound sand makes
when scattered for footprints

still following the silence
between 10, then 0, pressed
against your face –tides

are used to this, start out
to forgive, then lay down
as emptiness and a home.



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