ISSUE  1   2   3  


 5     SUBMIT

Ingmar Bergman

Joe Moffett

Ice eats the shadow,
they wipe film off the lens, they
are a crowd of misshapen
angels, raven-size, grasping at your rook.

a blade shone through
where is always a nightingale, bleeding against
the chair’s leg. once
the dust poured in, now it’s only as far as dawn,

no settlers there. only a hulking death
molded, ballerina-size,
cleaning your nose until the spoon
drops off, a reflection has fleshed.

your rage, so generously
placed on the page
blank, our ruins floating above a mess
of children. one holds his loathsome

love in the other. it burns sapphire
all the newsprint,
to ashen cloaks spills the screen. something
grows so the pupil, poised, may burst.