Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Sean Patrick Hill Glass I dream I am sifting through ash trays for coins. A casket cut from glass, I am pulled from an oven. I crack in the cold bath. Waking in a bed of hot coals, pockets of dust, I imagine building a temple in my chest, My heart growing so large it can touch All sides of the coffin at once. I was preparing for it as if it were something tremendous     after Epictetus Poets, a funny breed. Always waiting on word of their submission. Postcards from the road. Whitman worn to threads. Even the sun does everything for its own sake. The poems of Archilochus were discovered on linen used to wrap mummies- Nightjars, coffin birds. Next Poem
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