ALICE JAMES BOOKS
Fall Titles
A moth is dusting his legs
in a flower: impossible weight, his
vague gray lust; the bloom and he
nearly graze the ground. I promise you something
you'd shape a sound on,
white as a page but full, of little
licks and volutes. How close to the earth
can we hover? You would fill me like a sail.
from
Penelope's Notes to Orpheus
alicejamesbooks
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207.778.7071 /
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