melissa crowe
home
about
books
poetry
events
News & Media
Contact
Sure as I pressed hot hands together, asked the silence
for what on waking nights I think I still might want: to be lifted
from my life by some animal bigger than me. Possessed of lungs, wet
eyes, silken flanks, I burn
.
Lowing, lo—feet in sawdust, head upturned.
home
about
books
poetry
events
News & Media
Contact