And yet, the terrible
pulse of the heart keeps arming
and disarming. How
is it not louder than owls
in the trees, hooting all night?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
And yet, the terrible
pulse of the heart keeps arming
and disarming. How
is it not louder than owls
in the trees, hooting all night?