"...like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves" - Pablo Neruda It’s not just the poets or minstrels who sing about death— under the moon, everyone today must be a poet, must be a lover standing at a window, streaked face turned in the direction of the one gone away. What do the trucks in the streets carry, hidden from view? Bandages, gurneys; loaves of bread, flowers? We've learned to press a hand to the glass in a way that could mean I'll nurse you back to health, if not hope or goodbye.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.