Bottles on the closet floor, …
David Wojahn
The night mist leaves us yearning for a new location …
Under the trellised arbor, and our supper’s over …
Jerboa on a triple: I was in for it, …
Her first child belongs to the crows …
How long it must have been, the girl’s hair, …
Or gallery. Or strange askew museum. Or painting of a hotel bed …
Blurring the window, the snowflakes' numb white lanterns. …