From Issue 14: The Feather River

Kandie St. Germain I remember it saintly, permanently, a loom woven with granite, its surface stenciled by a rocky bed, once flecked with gold— the sun a starry-eyed reflection, Narcissus, perhaps, looking for a lost solitaire, loving what he saw: the sublime geometrics or a blurry malefic confession freezing into a winter of now and…

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