Click on each poem to continue to the next.

This issue features 7 pages.

Anyone’s hand can make a rough dirty cup from yonder, Holy Matter.

Let us walk together a legless worldmap-le-cirque.
Let us walk via the e-machine’s sweet almondwood gardens.
Let’s walk swonk Diana tracking rural woodland moanies.

I’m whetting my sickle and coming up under your legs to carry.
Pretty they look, ne puss.

The seven hundredth seventy seventh figure signifies that particle which swallows.
When in the end it finds the world is naught, it eats itself.

It counts no less in the things that protect us.
Out heart transfer system is a holy eye. I have a reverence for us.
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