Fall 2012

Edited by Blas Falconer | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright



​Poetry

​Of Our Vessel

F. Daniel Rzicznek


An invention for remembering
where it was I was going
through the house’s sun-flooded labyrinth—
you tell me it is possible.
And I tell you
(sonofabitch captain) that a string
around the finger means
zilch to the occupying army of instinct.

My course unwinds itself through
itself—coals hissing under my heels,

all those pink and cerulean pills
bottomed now like amulets,
the doctor’s jargon filling the waves.
You haven’t slipped an inch.




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