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This is issue number Nine, Fall 2002.
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Conservation is a practice
without song. The last storm
moves so slow up the body,
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under
bud embroidered
canopy. She's begun
bleeding, a delicate, webby
first
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There was this:
Darkness filtered through a gap in the drapes,
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Click machine to see more
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Earth Residents of the year 2050
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In San José, Costa Rica, at seventeen,
I fell for eloquent women I couldn't kiss,
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Your name, caramelized sugar
in my mouth, your body, heavy
humidity between my hands,
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On dirt road grooved beside river
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