..:: 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


What is Burning is Elusive at Best
Raymond Farr


At death's door

What is burning
Is elusive at best—

A box of a backseat
In which the hundreds swam

The thousand remaining
Yards to shore

Scaring off
Littoral birds

Like patience they flew
Like a person wrinkled by old age is burning, slowly

The burden of the poet
Is spectacle

Like the first man was also a thing
Open at a moment when

Phantom limbs
Craned out of nothingness

To eat poetry
To garden words

Perspective was lost
Linoleum was laid

Only to discover
Left to right

We scan what we see
Hunted like words

In a newspaper



//   Advance   //