These leaves are like the last green in the paint pots—dried up, dull, and rough, behind the flowered umbels whose blue is not their own, only mirrored from far away. In their mirror it is […]
These leaves are like the last green in the paint pots—dried up, dull, and rough, behind the flowered umbels whose blue is not their own, only mirrored from far away. In their mirror it is […]
I’m afraid that one day/
I will see what is missing/
Instead of what is there/