TW Featured Poet
breathlight/we hang/empty cisterns/on ashen branches/feel the cold
breathlight/we hang/empty cisterns/on ashen branches/feel the cold
Outside morning cats/wend their way home
Places become very far away—they reserve themselves to time. They are rescued.
What are they thinking, stretched out in the sun...
I see my son’s face on a battlefield in the pages on the floor.
Talk to the cloud; the rest will follow.