ISSUE: Winter 2002
| you go there without | looking a road split | |
| into the deer’s skull | reverses the Russian olives’ leaves | |
| you recognize inside | your body, any body | |
| trash wind-thrown | against the chain link fence | |
| laughter released | into your head | |
| camouflaged as thin air | the mountain lichenized | |
| something’s piss into | half fish half house half running | |
| child on a cliff spreads | slantwise from shallow holdfast | |
| the faithless shrub | grows out of sheer rock and crack | |
| only snatches of shade | that take up the map of flowing | |
| and a love of difficulty | grows as deep | |
| as the height of the cliff | which depends on the bird who lives there | |
| What does laughter | look like when it’s entered your body? | |
| you thought water | curling under ice would be safe | |
| Where will you hide | his voice? | |
| When does he | light your ear? | |
| breath pushes the face | before you into two and you think | |
| one of them | one of them |
