she is standing at the door, waiting. there is snow powdering down and filling his bootprints; it has been a long time. she puts her hands against her thighs, under her skirts. she watches the silent great sway of the earth. the sun is a single yellow breast, pressed hot against the sky. she puts… Continue reading poem: woman alone
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 