From “dear mother the church is cold.” Departure from standing in line while you wait for a signature. And when you complete the interchange nothing has fathomed. A blank space beneathe your eye is pulsing and you are holding something in one hand as you walk away from something else. Departure from wondering why certain unappetizing details will sell. While something dear is forgotten, forgets itself.
Laynie Browne Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2019, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|