ISSUE 001: POTENTIAL ENERGY
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Currents Brice AfonsoWorks in ProgressNibha AkireddyPlaying for DaysJon BennettRoman Candle  Oliver Beatty001: Potential Energy
Playlist
Hayden Carr-Loize and Pheobe Lippe
Cascade, Tooth, Circular Panel  
Sarah Chess
Expectations
Madeline Haze Curtis
Transmission I: spit with sonic weather
Claire Dauge-Roth
Try to Run
Clay Davis
Planning Time Off
Clay Davis
PoemSam ErteltUntitledUgo FerroUntitled, UntitledVitya FitsnerThe Drunken WalkRobert Pogue HarrisonDead Friend Haunts Man with Mismatched Flip-Flops R. W. Haynes'On ne part pas' disait Rimbaud, FUWA, Journal
Marie Hazard
NorCal Wave (Series)
Eva Hoffman
Carlos y Pablo, agua y espuma, and other paintingsMaría Fragoso Jara
The Ballad of Jeff Bezos 
Margot Kaiser
And the Days Are
Not Full Enough

Lulu Lebowitz
The Many Lives of Energy
Anna-Sofia Lesiv
Douma, Schizein
Chrstipher Lyr
Pristine
Douglas Milliken
Tu es d'une sucrerie diabolique
Mona Neilson
Process of Sculpting Dream, Block-In of a Young ManKaelin PalcuOn the Street, In the Arena
Jonah Pruitt
Letter to You as a Tallgrass Meridian
Maxwell Putnam
Pandæmonium
Matthew Schultz
Spin, Measure, Cut
Molly Pepper Steemson
Untitled, Untitled
Oliver Stokes-Curtis
L'AppesaLorraine de ThibaultDiálogos IBruna VettoriAnonymized LetterxDirt Poem
Rachel Wolfe
Metanoia Arina ZhuravlevaUntitled #11 Arina Zhuravleva





Letter to You as a Tallgrass Meridian

 by Maxwell Putnam

Up ahead,
waving over the guardrail
and me not knowing nature
from a crack in the pavement,
but they were the shade and made a similar shape
in the wind to what I knew the wisp of a cattail was, I was alone
and upset, I drove past them, the plumes of a tallgrass meridian.
In the way that one trails ribbons
of goodbyes, a bit heavy on the gas
and singing, to the extent that we'd always go
skinny dipping if given the chance, even if it was late
in the season, if we had stumbled upon Lucien Carr's
upstate frogpond for example, and following the pollywogs
through the cattails bare-bottomed into the muck,
dirtied the towels we took from the clean line—
though it really was too late in the season and a slight rain
had started, our bellies taut and shivering and us,
already on the outs, if a little wind had combed through
everything swaying just so, and me driving,
you know I wouldn't have seen it for all my tears,
and the plumes of tallgrass I drove right by them—
mile marker thirty-four.



Maxwell Putnam is a poet, essayist, and MFA candidate at Sewanee's School of Letters. He lives in the Catskills; currently in residence at Dar Meso, Tunis.