Issue#2: Jan - Mar 2003

Something here that they could miss, they know that much,


they've come here with hands that don't mean to or want



to symbolize solitude, sketched into whatever is deep here but there


they are, their shadows are naked, they've made the place itch,



listen. No word should come evermore feeling like a memory or a song,


the tongue must tongue off what's dancing to their first whispers,



listening from the far end like a new world, accessible and waiting


with testaments red with insight, no words, no sorry sentences, no



time for a period to emerge like a child coming, back first into their world


like a dream as one does, now, a boy with a clock and papers



to sign, its innocent eyes blinking, it will tap its innocent feet, innocently


will it say the war has begun, you are beautiful, are you true?