by Desiree Mitton
illustrator Guglielmo Castelli
Issue VIII
do you know what shape this
I want to say appears?
some see they say
and then look:
the long grass churning,
past by
like the color periphery.
golden that was
(she was).
now,
you will lend yourself up and over to. like a ladder,
you will lean your head against but body
straight.
long stirring, my hands my head
imprint. they assured me it would not be
permanent
(you assure me I never was, am
“only
my third slayer”).
and so the gold and
wind
wanders the
spot where we had lain : look
