Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Carla Criscuolo Perspective I no longer feel that fierce tide flood my breast with anticipation when I look at you. Now you appear distant, so indistinct as to be abstract. You utter words that bounce off the buttons of my dress, and fall to the floor like sparrows to concrete when windows get in their way. Victor We snapped the last word in half like a wishbone and let the clavicle decide the winner. He waved his triumph as a flag, stuck it squarely in the remains of our argument and claimed them in the name of his own forked tongue. Next Poem
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