PORTLAND — As small as the staffs of many newspapers are today, it would still be unusual for the editor in chief to also handle distribution, but there G Ferragamo-Gilbert was, carrying a cardboard box filled with stacks of the latest issue of The Portland Dirt, each copy tied in red twine.

They weren’t going to newsstands, though, or getting dropped at front doors. They were placed, five copies at a time, in businesses around town: on a wall-mounted shelf at bookstore Print, atop a ledge by the stairs at cafe Novel, in a back corner of record store Strange Maine with the other zines.

OK, technically it’s not a newspaper, Managing Editor Benjamine Sapp admitted, though they do hope to have more articles in the future. Past issues have included restaurant reviews, horoscopes and comics, but mostly it’s poetry, surrounded by drawings, photos and collages.

All the content is literally cut and pasted (or taped), scanned and printed — in black and white — on 11-by-17-inch pieces of paper that are then folded twice into their final form. They call it “a handcrafted art newspaper,” and no one could debate the first part.

“The way they package it, it’s very appealing. It makes people want to open it and find out what’s inside,” said Michelle Souliere, owner of Green Hand Book Shop on Congress Street, where the copies she carries always sell out.

She’s seen Portland zines come and go over the years but thinks the Dirt’s low-tech approach bodes well for its sustainability, while giving it a look that’s at once spontaneous and intentional.

“Whatever magical alchemy they’re putting into that little zine, it’s working,” Souliere said.

This seventh issue, which is dated October but was delivered the first week of November, marks the start of the second year of publication and is dedicated to the Portland Poets Society — “a bunch of misfits” that perform at Old Port bar Lincolns every other Tuesday, said Ferragamo-Gilbert, and where they met their collaborator in the project.

It was after one of those poetry readings, sitting at nearby bar Maps, that they turned to Sapp and said, “You know what we could do?”

“It came together just out of a need that we saw,” Ferragamo-Gilbert said about wanting to unite the city’s disconnected arts groups and showcase the work being created. “We wanted a physical collection and archive.”

That may be surprising to hear, coming from a couple of 30-somethings, but it aligns with a resurging interest in all things analog among the younger generations, as an alternative to social media platforms perceived as increasingly unsafe. Of course, they use those tools, too, making calls for submissions on Instagram and taking payment for the $5 copies via Venmo.

Ferragamo-Gilbert’s approach to distributing the publication was, “Let’s put it in the world and see who finds it,” assuming it would mostly get picked up by people already in their circles. But with many as 70 submissions coming in for a single issue, it’s clearly found a larger audience.

“It’s definitely been a huge surprise,” they said.

Right now, aside from paying for printing supplies, the money they get from the cover charge is collecting in a pot as they make plans for the future. They’d like to hire a proofreader, have an office, pay themselves, which they haven’t done yet (Ferragamo-Gilbert has a few day jobs, mainly at a secondhand clothing store and as a bartender, and Sapp works in the restaurant industry).

The ultimate goal is to become their own publishing house and support other creative outlets, but it’s a dream so big that Ferragamo-Gilbert almost didn’t want to say it aloud.

At this point, they said, “I think I just kind of want it to reach as many people as I can.”

The extent of the Dirt’s reach was evident on a Tuesday night in late October at a party at Hi-Fidelity Brewing celebrating the previous two issues. The East Bayside taproom was closed to the public, so there was no question why the people who filled the parking lot and stood two and three rows deep behind the bar were there.

Writers, or people standing in for them, were called up to a microphone to read their contribution to the issue. Among them was Autumn Forsing, a 22-year-old high school English teacher, whose short poem “A Parting Gift” lamented the little she had “as proof of love.”

“I wrote this poem three years ago and kept it hidden,” she said, adding that she was sharing it now because it had become relevant in her life again. Snaps came from the supportive crowd.

Forsing learned about The Portland Dirt on Instagram when she was finishing up college at the University of Southern Maine, and she thought making a contribution would help her feel like part of the community. She got that and more.

“I think it gives us a space to breathe and just release,” she said.