Valley of stars, lace, caulk, molten glass: the glassine envelope of my womb; its water table rising. * Overhead a bird swims the air currents and that’s the nearest our bodies glean flying— the butterfly stroke. * Last night’s trees tessellated with lit windowpanes. * I am too close to the sky.
Suzanne Frischkorn Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2021, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|