The moon is moving away from us,
hitching itself ever higher
by its own tuggings at our gravity.
It is paling out,
like your face,
but so gradually,
I think you are still here.
More from Issue #1
Dig by Carol Hamilton
In this desert dust my hands touch her hands dust to dust stone charred supper over jawbone lifted rabbit to bone bone beneath stone bone to bone
Passover Hat by Carol Hamilton
We, thoughtless, had an Easter Parade, the principal a tall, mercurial Irishman, Judy Garland and fashion all playing their part, paper plates, construction paper, paste making up the rest. There in the…
Over Coat by Dave Gregg
this red jacket and it’s attitude always superior whatever generation wore it, mother, grandmother myself now my own sits and eyes it warily, judges “It will not fit,” “But it will,” I…
Materialism by Carol Hamilton
The things around them turned Dutch painters greedy for light, which could not have come so often, for I, too, lived edged by the North Sea and saw little enough of it.…