Month of the least death poetry,
I pity you: a bone of a day
once every four years tossed your way.
You bury it.
A fever coming on, a swoon
and liquid filling up a spoon.
There’s time for only one full moon.
You carry it.
Month of the least death poetry,
I pity you: a bone of a day
once every four years tossed your way.
You bury it.
A fever coming on, a swoon
and liquid filling up a spoon.
There’s time for only one full moon.
You carry it.
Rachel Cusk photo courtesy the author.
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