Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Alan Zhukovski In the stone I stare at the window biting the nails of your lamp and breathe How it all began it was an explosion I burned the hairs on my arms to see my skin I’m standing on the shore an otter in the lake is swimming below the surface of the water like a ghost or like a flowing sleeve Heroes walking down the hill near a blinded house I saw a pair of broken willows their leaves were pale in the camera of sunlight they were pathetic in their white pyjamas wounded by the bombing but their bodies prevented my house from falling Next Poem
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