Last thing each night, go out for the moon.Pull on old coat, shut garden gate.Roll up old sleeves. Swing arms. Poor soul.
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I can’t see it from this side of our window. In any case I don’t know what you’re talking about. A snuff of kettle’d tea in the kitchen.
In Rome last summer I learnedthat there are seven varieties of apricots,that they are distinguished not only
American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin Probably, ghosts are allergic to us. Our uproarious
I’m so wound. With built up key stroke, dog bite and growl.Wind slides through New Mexican brilliant whitegreyclouds. Spring. Early morning five-minute drive to school. I drop
what is the word for the realization that your language never loved you? you are a red thing / scattered, sad map of sacrificial fires nightly appealing where is that word?