poetry
Winter, the woods,
my brother running away in
moonlight the color of marrow, his
200 and some-odd bones warm beneath
his skin, tucked tender in his ears, whole
and fresh until those few short sharp last breaths.
blackbird
Page in Progress
Winter, the woods,
my brother running away in
moonlight the color of marrow, his
200 and some-odd bones warm beneath
his skin, tucked tender in his ears, whole
and fresh until those few short sharp last breaths.
Page in Progress