On the Probability of Christ’s Delight in Our Boys Occasionally Whacking People with Their Fronds During Palm Sunday Mass
By Poetry Issue 120
Perhaps our sons are signs, agitating the distracted
to gaze at the frescos restored to the apse
And It Came to Pass in Those Days
By Poetry Issue 105
I hear these words in your voice no matter who says them, in the well-water smell of the basement, by the artificial tree you and she would one day put a sheet over, so you never had to take it down or put it up again.
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