Spring 2018


Who will make Your long bed, Smooth your grass quilt, fluff your stone pillow? Who will tuck the dry dirt under your chin, sing in my place in the songless night under bright dots of light in the dark, curved sky, sing Willow? Sing Willow. Sing Willow.


I ask the tree to register Me and it stings— What for…? Some ridiculous itch Nibbles, hails hate Hiding plain, insight A twitching Claw-gripped pendant Fixed against its Bark lapels. A glimpse and this Network exposed, An almost Ancient urge to lick or for A loam and petrichor Scent, s’il…
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