Having been made to look
at the bell, having been made
to crawl around the table
on all fours, similarities cast
their muzzy holographs
into the eyes of the looker,
who at times, looked like I did
and at times, looked at finches
sprung on shocks of millet
in a snow-muted country
he alone could see. Intimacy
was something like a pond,
on the opposite sides of which
stood two lovers. The distance
across it was short, compared
to a lake, or to an ocean—
and shorter, still, when frozen.
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Issue 63
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Editor's Note
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POETRY
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FICTION
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ESSAY