From a spurious past to an unwritten future, our little anarchies ignite. It’s the season of yellow roses, yellow jackets. We’re all just reflections in John Primer’s sunglasses, but to write and be read is like when your eyes meet someone else’s by accident—and they look back.
In this issue, hickories can feel as distant as disco, Rimbaud dissolves in an N+7 procedure, and voices are wild. We visit the crooked centipedes of the Sopot streets, ride a bus and peek inside a dry cleaner’s in San Francisco, feel the condensation on window panes, ready for any crisis and any dream, in the old country or in exile.