Shore

Editor's note · excerpt

The Third Shore does not publish a shore. We publish a poem called Walking, in which the author writes: "In truth, I have not moved, nor have the trees left their place." We publish an essay called The Missing Roll, in which the camera holds no film, and every perfect frame lives only in the sound of the shutter. We publish a poem called Above the Ground, Adrift — its last line: "There is no shore." This is the inaugural issue. We promise no shore, no direction. We can only promise that, in each issue, someone has paid careful attention. Yirenju closes with Rest Note: "I became the earth — a rest note, still warm to the touch." We publish that line as the final line of our first issue, because that is what we ourselves hope to become.