The birds have disappeared into trees, a troubling quiet.
You feel the loose mirrors around you, a forest of
water. Lakes sway in your chest. Will you starve
in such drench and coldness, be choked with distaste?
You could stand here for hours and then turn to
storm—sheer refusal and will. You could collapse
into fear and draw back into foam. These sheets of rain
are fences and crops, deeds, statues, ponds.
They are things you can’t change. Things you can’t say.

- Joanna Klink



Bibliography section article Bibliography Section Catalog Bibliography Section Web Link PDF icon small Sold Dot