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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 4, December 2014


Alison Lock
Holmfirth, West Yorkshire, England


I almost missed the shop with its narrow window, a mere yard of glass, cafes on either side. Shoes. Perched, pitched, not paired, nor practical. Seamless, fine leather, displayed singly, as if they are jewels. Brogues for the perfect bound.

window reflections
my hand on the
schumacher's door

I walk along a narrow path where the air is filled with the acidic scent of fresh spraypaint. On one side is a high wall that runs along the edge of a rail track. Graffiti fills the old stonework with the snakes and dots of a cryptic language. His work done, the artist clips the tops onto the cans and stands back to admire each swirl, every sweep, bordered in black; feathered, exact.

through caged arches
a train growls



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