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.
					
				- 
		Issue 63
- 
		Editor's Note
- 
		POETRY
- 
		FICTION
- 
		ESSAY
 
		

