Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Statements Made on the Way to the Grave by Matt Henriksen   If I could reach catch the first glass I dropped as a child, which smashed on the kitchen tiles, and hold the intact object in my hand, studying the intricacy of its painted flowers, its curling vines, hearing its lip clink against my teeth and tasting the water as it was then, I would not sit here, drinking.     Next Poem
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