The vase holds a hyacinth near your pillow where heads lay heavy
the natural order of the abyss, hidden from this floodwater winter.

This is night in thought and I wander from our room through the hall,
and I go to the underbelly of evening. Walk through anatomies:

bowel and sinews, the lymph of chance. Wait for memory
to pass over to a newer, cooler enclosure. Lids release.

About the author

Dylan Crawford is originally from northern California and studied Slavic Literature and Languages at UC Berkeley. He is a writer and educator currently living…

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Issue 22 · April 2015

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