April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
By two o’clock the snowstorm had begun its diagonal attack on windows overlooking East 7th. Inside, low hum of the fridge. Hard to tell
What light there is in me waits like a winter field the way stars, by day, hide like seeds’ buried choirs. Once I called