Issue 14

Sometimes the past steps right in front of the present:
the number 62, a face at an airport,
a name lit up on a billboard of surreal.

You might think the past would blot the present.
Or fan memory
then watch it fade on cue.

Last week your voice flamed out around the edges of someone else’s.
I couldn’t look at it
but at night, in dreams,
it burns messages across my eyelids.