h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s






“Ah,” she says at 11:15, “to intend then is to hope, is it not?”
Her brain flips back and forth between concave and convex.
Three straight lines that meet each other at their end points and leave a space in the middle might be her family.
Fabric hung on the insides of glass squares that punctuate house walls might be her underthings.
Imaginary letters combined to make imaginary words might be her weekends. 
But what if her adventure is no metaphor for bigger things and the bigger things are a metaphor for just this?  





The sentence reads tragedies.
The sentence is an industrial building.
Four sentences are like four sleeping dogs or four visible wavelengths.
They are small hearts or gills.
They are impossible.
You find yourself at an unexpected age in an unexpected airport in an unexpected mood.
The sentence aims to be not proud, and to not judge harshly the conversations of the drunk.
The information with which we make choices and the floors we sleep on are sentences.
The sentence battles blindness to horizons, blindness to temperatures, empty space blindness, and line orientation blindness.
All the ways to be human: six bad and six good.
The sentence has pathetic, poetic bones.
This one is in the water.
She is an estate, a cottage, and an animal.
She is a fake box.
She is zero point zero.
One quarter of a pill for me and one and a half pills for her.
The sentence is a bump on itself.
The sentence texted is a bird.  



BIO: Lesle Lewis’ books include Small Boat, Landscapes I & II,  lie down too, and A Boot’s a Boot. She teaches literature and writing at Landmark College in Vermont and she lives in New Hampshire.


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