by Steph Spector
It doesn’t matter whether you’re on a hundred yards of turf stamped with the seal of our alma mater, or standing on a bluff overlooking a creek, cinnamon whiskey on the brain. It’s the curl-bend-whip of your wrist that makes them fly so fast and so willingly. It’s something like a turntable needle when it kisses a record, crackles, and sings. Or a dandelion seed clipped from its brothers and sisters, drifting into flight. You know there’s no better sublimation than that. When something in your world goes missing, you know how to find your center, how to soften in the connect-the-dots of stars. In the discs that almost vanish in the spaces.