By Lyn Lifshin Pale salmon light, 9 degrees. Floor tiles icy. Past branches the beaver’s gnawed at the small hole the heron waits, deep in the water. Sky goes apricot, tangerine, rose. Suddenly, a dive, then the heron with sun squirming in his mouth, a carp that looks a third as …
Tag: Lyn Lifshin
Poem: My Sister wants Me to Come and Read through Thirty Years of Diaries
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