Poetry Issue #63

Few Exceptions Unaccustomed to my vacant life, I come slowlyuntetheredas if treading on birds. We are imperfectinstruments—I make up my mindto read Ulysses out of spite, again,and pay to spend time in a greenhouse,ironically.Under its ribs, which pushinto the sky,the mist falls across my face, hissing.The fronds of an overgrown cabbagecup my head from above,as […]