Close storms, braille music.
Mud plucks the rain
like the gut
of a violin, warm in the palindrome
of arm
and chin—in-
tricate chit chat.
even as I write
a rocking chair unfurls a choir of
feral cats, and house
wrens, chiseled
maple, crackle
like real fire in the flue.
We too live in the neck of this hourglass,
in the downpour
of pause before the fickle
next note, the flicker in
a vein, a pulse
to feel in the figment, to feel for.
To celebrate National Poetry Month and in appreciation of the many cancelled book launches and tours, we are happy to present an April Celebration: 30 Presses/30 Poets (#ArmchairBookFair). Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.