R. T. Castleberry

Adventure Story

In this small, blue room—

overheated,

clenched by melancholy,

I sit the night, guarding carnival goods,

blood potions,

the knife thrower’s serrated blades.

Two buskers walk a tune,

words muffled by the wave’s insistence.

A mathematical conceit of

stars burning to earth enriches

water’s lap against pier beams,

a night sailor’s crossing.

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 90
Tiny Data

 

cover

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contributors