The old gods only ask for forgiveness when watching from too far a distance. They guess and risk and let their furred ankles meet a finger's shaky tip. In our looking up and inward, we, too, construct a primeval forest populated by winding rows of tiger lilies imagined in a lover's nautical ear where shipwrecks line beaches made of nickel and iron. Here, hunger comprises both soil and canopy, and little escapes the hourglass's rough rim. The poems...
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Poetry