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