by Lee Potts Phil Botha Exhausted but I’m finally on a flight and empty, for now, of all departures. I wonder what everyone crossing this continent with me tonight wants above all else. What will you want when I arrive? Every light down there is where it is because someone felt a stab of desire. How do any of us navigate to what’s always hidden behind the infinitely tender horizon? Our course set by constellations of our own want. We traced white lines like thread taut betwee

by Lee Potts Laura Ockel We pried rocks up from the creek that turned the mill’s wheel for years and found a silver coin and then a mirror. Water ran out its hollow handle, down your hand and arm, ruining your white shirt with rust. In the wet, cracked glass the new moon was broken and low in the sky behind you. Mayfly larvae curled and fed between the rocks, waiting to surface, to split down their back, and to fly away from their last empty shell for a day or two before fall