A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Games of innocence, death of innocence,
scent of longing…pray to these lesser gods,
my dears, that they will jump into the way
of what comes for us.
We will look back at the last of the sunflowers leaning so low, and we’ll recall the “end times,” swooning at the way the brown sky infiltrated houses
I have nothing save love
I ought to study signs and portents.
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