Community Garden (Laure-Anne Bosselaar Poem)
I watch the man bend over his patch, a fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth with ...
I watch the man bend over his patch, a fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth with ...
I sold her bed for a song. A song of yearning like an orphan's. Or the one knives carve into ...
I love to lick English the way I licked the hard round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for ...
amidst swirling wine and flickers of silver guests quote Dante, Brecht, Kant and each other. I wait in the hall ...
Doors were left open in heaven again: drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages around roofs and trees. Like wet ...
Look at this storm, the idiot, pouring its heart out here, of all places, an industrial suburb on a Sunday, ...
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