Summer 2013 • Vol. XXXV No. 3 Poetry |

Like Water Flowing

In landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God.             —Herman Melville Everything had to look alive inside the tomb. Outside everything's dead in Saqqara, the 5000-year-old mastaba tombs there above and below ground, the above-ground part sometimes below—though visible today barely, everything being the same color of sand whether it's blowing or not —when blowing, even the air's that color! The only sign from the outside of a presence of mind are letters carved into the walls —not Arabic so it couldn't be the wind's work articulating wispy cirrus cloud shapes like what waves make on the beach sometimes. Here as opposed to that the carving's deep, the hieroglyphs stamped, safe inside their ovals: each a cartouche for the name of a person of power who's held fast in that. But they're worn now, fading. Inside though, below the angled grave shaft's opening, the human elem

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Elegy

By Elizabeth Arnold

In landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God.             —Herman Melville Everything had to look alive inside the tomb. Outside everything's dead in Saqqara, the 5000-year-old mastaba tombs […]

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