Issue EightIssue Eight PoetryPoetry

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By J.W. Burns


hunched against the orange sky,

a white horizon nibbling at his bowels.

Far below, his sheep hungry, thirsty, horny

to be night in a cleft of stars.


Glibly reluctant, he is high enough

to make up secrets, cycle energy

into a sea without memory, a voice

traveling faster than the speed of light.


Somewhere water inhales, exhales.

He searches sleep for a beak to tear open

the earth, for the doubt to laugh; awake,

he pops a finicky squat.