just found my poem in issue one (on page 2065). i'm happy not to have written it because i find it rather cool

Dead snow

Bald portico in dead side, where
necessities have stood
There is no austerity more punctual
than snow

There is no coming lonelier
than sleep
What if he should
explore at midsummer, at midsummer, gray and
glad?

Lonely as a road
Desert, you have been here, slaking like
a way, complaining about a robber

Like lonely riddles
Like dead bodies

Is that honesty then, that
purple wishfulness?

my thanks to the editors for including my non-submission