Issue 3



Gabe Johnson



Begin with all your breath. Trace the coast’s soft shoulders, the fogless cove and columbine. Your knee
will follow, kiss the sand—shards like nettles on new skin. The highway lined by tiger-lily, oak like
moss on slumping hills becomes sequoia, thimbleberry trails. You know each river rock was named,
saw bodies leap against the flow. You’ll press your newest scar against lost particles—begin again.