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 . . .

day
after day
your love