WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)
 

Kerry Banazek

If Our Eyes Slip Through Our Fingers and Leave a Residue

If it's like the shiny and indecipherable energy in tin scales, sloughing off death. Dying, not the dead. If it's the middle-night sailboats with their long and short horns. As if. I hope so. The way bridge-sky opens. Yes, opened. Opening. In noisy halts. What is.

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