YOUR SWEET HUNK OF TRASH

POMEGRANATE, SASSAFRAS

ABBOT

MERIAN

Sometimes the streets' gridding gauze seems just the thing to encase this throb. Lines running out otherwards starch the punctum of me. This tiny slipping site of me. My bicycle is a mystery I've learned to collaborate with. Cars gnash & noxify on all intimate quarters, architecture tips up to blue & sun, pitted avenues in grimy ice-rim gripe against too tattery tyres; and I arrive, hot in the blasty chill, bright-eyed, breathing, leave my machine in the street & enter at the appointed door.

BENJ GERDES

The whole gang was there. When the piper showed up it was almost too much. I held Mitzi close and studied everyone's eyes, my knuckles

bloodless. Around two in the morning I cracked: "Benj," I whispered, "isn't it time?" He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, and gave a blazing glare.

Владиимир Владиимирович Набоков

The gingko leaf, in golden hue, when shed,
A muscat grape,
Is an old-fashioned butterfly, ill-spread,
In shape.

word, orts
for chick, spill
night pot
pourri, nourri
soil, spell
blank in devanāgarī. Semantra sounding from within monastiraki wall-bounds, aground, germinate in Sanskrit seed-syllable: