Below is an excerpt from a poem by Renwick Berchild in Issue II: hermes (the kaleidoscope)
Tornadoes by Renwick Berchild
Not to die—be dead—but to be hot. Charged like a battery, maybe I could
blow past my limits, slink my cooking mind around the conscious root
and know optimal form, lick a god’s thumb, worth the endless time
for a few seconds of sizzling glory.
Three decades without a single shock.
Even my strands will not grey,
even my knees refuse to cave,
my deliberations at banks swept away;
nothing thunders, gales never lift me, merely beat my muddied dress
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