We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
The story of you is starting in me again. When I think of you, I see a road, a long gray stretch of lonely two-lane highway, a yellow stripe painted down its middle, a road in the middle of nowhere.
August 1993Something that seems made of earth itself, but alive like us / — but can’t be, wouldn’t be / thought of in the same sentence, purely a wriggling verb / not subject, dangling modifier / to what is left unsaid.
July 1993Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
SEND US A LETTER