by Scott T. Hutchison Stephen Poore You slip, right into it, on a low moment’s non-notice. Mysteries of bottle, but no glass. You survive on scant: stolen watermelon sugar, a trespassed swimming hole with rocky falls to lie in. Underwater. Eyes open. Counting how long the breath holds. The world bubbles and froths cleanly above you. Angelic separation. The flow changes with Not-so-Fun-House mirror distortion. Worthless would be too much of a compliment; less is the better,