Quart of View
A lee of birds
grasps your waking up
where I live between nape and funnel
we lap the endless
never locating
the number we agreed on
now like the inside bones of the hand
this rondel of apocrypha:
We are cut from water
is there no air
we cannot breathe?
Read Erin Radcliffe’s Idyll and Prayer Handles
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