5
-6
-7
-8
-9
-10
-11
-12
EATING STONE SOUPNothing left to do.Just scatter the ashes. Listening to your mother, I leave crumbs where they might become a new thing. There is no grave, nowhere to spread nectar on black bread with your hands made of air. |
Return --
Previous --
Next
Issue #19, March, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.