as the sleepers
I would that I were with those dead there in their restful deep, were still my bones in earthen bed to know but soundless sleep. I would that sparrows …
Tag: Christie Florit
to my child
how many rivers, how many earths have fused to make you flesh— deep-petalled eyes dew-closed as poppied hills of cathay; veins marmor-blue and tigris-still enravelled in your legs; furrows of …