Editors’ Note: Vestiges_00: Ex-Stasis
Writers are abject beings. Their numbers, like those of cockroaches, are indefinite, and their sight is similarly met with first a grimace of disgust, followed then by scorn. Writing is an art that deals in unwanted gifts, an exercise in the superfluous... Read More
Three Poems by Virginia McLure
On a shelf / on a nail / on top of the door frame / your stares make a triangle / of forward-thrusting gaze. / I dagger down their lines / & slowly, carefully, leg / outside. I check myself: Alive. So it feels right to palm you down / & line your painted faces... Read More