Mirror-Writing
I asw the cradle of my child - a tomb.
poetry
Poem
You too wanted greater things, but love
Ancient Rite
Ancient Rite
A Caution for Just-Born Poets, Buzzing Actively
Oh the frantic flies flutter and squirm
Pondering
As calm as summer bees among the roses
Testament
Mother, our days often seemed
Trees and Grass
Sunspotted I hear
Lady of Means
A lady of means, she had assured
The Fledgling
We cannot ask them how it was to die:
Lisan
Fused in these sad depths and musty chambers of grass
Pages
Current Issue: No. 301
