Plenty
It’s late, the last night
of spring. I read
a dead friend’s poetry
under the amber
of a lamp. I lean in
to listen, as if the page
were her face, as if
the margins might open
and close like a mouth.
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Plenty
It’s late, the last night
of spring. I read
a dead friend’s poetry
under the amber
of a lamp. I lean in
to listen, as if the page
were her face, as if
the margins might open
and close like a mouth.
No posts
My favorite Dispatch yet. Really great!
Beautiful and painful. Thanks.