Issue 100

A certain way I was is gone,
I admit, the ways that I was young.

A bird sits the branch in beauty for
It has recently killed.

To be a poet you must write
more than you know

It was another year or two before Brother Thibault whispered to Gérard the secret of his salt. He had, apparently, received unearthly assistance.

Doesn’t a fire, good and hot, burn back into a wound until there’s nothing left for it to do but heal?

Our solitude turns out to be crowded. The writer’s tiny hut is filled with ghosts; the painter’s chilly studio is populated by unseen rivals; in the poet’s hard-won hideaway, invisible influences lurk. Others are always already there. So much for the romantic myth.