by Ayesha Chatterjee

Pressed into the bleakness
of the modern world’s quest for glory
five, six, seven, eight steps imprint
a direction.  Northwest.  And then. Nine, ten,
eleven, due south.  I turn my eyes away
knowing there was flight before
and after while definition
hardened on disinterested claws;
clutch my paper cup and hurry
past like Lethe.

— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 1