Away from me you’ll fly,
like this title,
like my life, into the void,
I have seen it happen,
watch it happen now
as snow sluggish, marches on
white city from white distances
in the west, I have carried a candle
for you, burning wax off my fingertips,
dry, I have seen how this ends,
and it’s so silly, it’s so inevitable,
away from me, I’ll die.
More from Issue #2
Beaten Blues by Polly Buckingham
Don't call me, I don't want to cry no more. The fan's moaning 'cause the screws are loose, and the floor's wet with rain. Why'd you leave me, Baby? The fan's loose,…
23rd St. Works from Home by Tom Pescatore
23rd street fires, cars ablazin’, driver gettin’ his laundry and the story at the taco truck is building with each half known fact/each lie says, “anybody in there?” (the whole car is…
Glass Pipe by Polly Buckingham
In a wide room of rain smells a gardenia bush grows between the floorboards. 2 AM: he stands, bends, sticks his thumb between the bricks in the road. Open window, empty attic…
Dialogue by Mark J. Mitchell
—There is something you’ve forgotten, my friend. —I know. There was a book. —Yes. Small. Gold-bound. —That’s the one. My father’s first, one he found on some shelf in a sad ruined…