we wait for snow at a barn dance
brave men on some god-forsaken bridge
we wait for snow where a gas jockey pumps
a stream of pink horses into infinity, 1920
If you’re a book lover, you’ve probably encountered narrative poetry at some point. Maybe you read
Summer day, late afternoon, Crazy Suzanne appears at my door. “Are my tits getting bigger?” she
by David Stone We are still in the car, pushing through heavy, drifted snow. We will
You are invited to a poetry reading with Roosevelt Islander Adela Sinclair. She and Rowyda Amin
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