I want to put down what the mountain has awakened. My mouthful of grass. My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch. There’s a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I sink to…
4 tygodnie temu
are not writing poems for beauty’s sake. Their poems come in bottles from the sea to be put to our ears like conches. There are poems buried in the sands of prison yards, backyards, sequestered under stones, stone that was once the walls…
4 tygodnie temu
Those who live to have it and those who live to give it. Of course there are those for whom both are true, but never in the same measure. Those who have it to give are like cardinals in the snow. So easy and beautifully lit. Some are rabbits. Hard to see…
4 tygodnie temu