portion of the artwork for Sam Rasnake's poetry

Something to forget
Sam Rasnake

I cannot will not who can say help the writing
can’t wake its stiff hibernation won’t haven’t
muddled and muddy hands passing over cold wet
walls miles below any import that would ever be
home again There are no paintings here Just a few
words scratched into stone as if to remind time
that we’re all prisoners here signed Jack he said

—Berkeley, California


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 42 | Fall 2013