It will be like this moment of fixity
in the universal sweep, this time
when crow lights
on an olive branch
and just breathes, breathes
the twilight air in
motionless, without a single feather-
rustle, without a twitch of caw
sound, or nod of beak
in that very tree everyone
warned us against, predicting
it could not grow
here, for us,
in this personal landscape
-
Issue 54
-
Editor's Note
-
Poetry
-
Fiction
-
Book Review
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
by Joseph Millar
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust