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From the April 1997 Print Edition

Honorarius handed his robe to the catechumen And picked around the bones of the Creed. These are rough times, bitter times, Even the tent makers aren’t working. And Chrysalis, the weaver, and her daughter, Plunged through the neck After seven desperate hours on the grill. Robes are scarce, and . . . . Continue Reading »

The Filling

From the April 1995 Print Edition

Cobwebs jammed the punched out holes of the handlegrip. It was a galvanized piece, except where the faucet stem met the faucet body. A crescent of rust proved the spigot had not been used for years. A quick twist and he broke the seal. First nothing, then a low rumble, then fluid the color of water . . . . Continue Reading »