the channel in the gorge blankets of moss an exhalation of pigs before slaughter red-dyed cotton cords that keep the dead upright drops of rice wine stolen from the lips of the anito alphabets of coagulated blood swimming in hot broth the hollow of ringing space between mortar and pestle a kind of dancing which others mistake for shuffling high winds sculpting ledges where we'll rest in time
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.