216 Readings | 2 Ratings
Snatched and held in the hollow of thorax is this:
rolled-up sleeves, a soft space slowly unfurling
fern and frond — on and on in to waxing leaves,
the sea whistling, a child running,
the red brick somewhere singing.
I wonder / / the same way a spider stitches her web, / casts the thread from her body like / an anchor, descends upon her / own gossamer from…
We’d crawl beneath the chain-link fence at night, / sneak into the museum’s Grecian wing. / Then grab a priceless urn, and tempting fate, / toss…
in these echoes / i speak without form / like fingers on skin / that do not belong to me / / lost in the tangle of hair / between her…
A Problem of Taxonomy
Miriam Bird Greenberg
In the low dusk swallows swoop from their bearded nests in the eaves. The evening primroses are in bloom, fragile vining flowers, and with…
More by Rose Linke
We are thirsty and we wish for rain
We are trying to define drought so we look it up in the dictionary. We accidentally look up drown instead. / Where we are caught it’s enough to…
If you’re looking for trouble / try just looking. When your / eyes become trouble they’ll / be every color you perceive— / an aurora of your…
Is obviously unsolved to this day. / Is a heavy blizzard subject to drought. / Is a crater in the ground launched into space. / Is the lowliest…
We sip sap as / wood pecker / would dream / / of the rhythm of the / / beak in bark. / / Hey, eucalypt eyes. / Hello, belly birch. / …
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