Reviewed by Angela Gregory-Dribben I imagine Anna Scotti observing from within a snow globe without the snow but with “the sun…beating glitter from the
It is the time of long evenings, and they sit by the window waiting for the golden hour her gown is as heavy as
You might think this is too much sharing, and my wife, who for this poem I’ll call Irene (which, coincidentally, is her real name),
Scour and find a scroungy dump mutt; take a glass jar with a screw top and scratch the dog all over with the open-mouth