ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Grapple

The organ was part muscle,
half art,
part
squeeze box, half

start in the right direction
from the sinister side,
both hook and
capitulation.



Not Diana Trilling

Not lyres live (she pays the rent),
nor lilt, nor gilt, nor lily.
No guilty girl. No frills. Three apples
in the grass. Bow, target.
The trajectory the stolen arrow follows—
plot—is formulaic. I, me, mine, my:
until identity's clear as the prize, the victor is
queen of the hill.



Not Lionel Trilling

Trilling birdies, living
electric, shivers sent
through my spine, erection
of exciting evidence, taut
with anticipatory pleasure, or
reacting already, our bodies build
and collapse, build and collapse, connect,
couple, disengage. This is more than you
thrill me or you're my thrill or
the more prosaic thrill of being alive.
Love: are you in it? I'm telling you, it's a thrill
a minute.