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Contents Page: December 31, 2010, vol 6 no 4

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Jim Kacian


an empty beer can

strapped to the outside of the bathyscape begins juddering at only a few meters, collapsing in on itself at a few hundred, and in the blackness beneath the photic zone implodes like a neutron star to its minimal dimensions—an unguessable distortion on a what-not shelf, a zohar, a too-heavy slug of something somehow familiar, and yet . . .

after day
your love

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