Panhandle by Kimberly Burwick



We marry and watch for

the kind of fog

we knew back in tobacco fields.

Put the fish in garlic

and curry while the coconut oils

soak into other vegetables.

Surely there is a cathedral rotting

somewhere in a greener rain,

but no red birds and it’s

the red and steaming feathers

you need for the heart to settle into

its untaught center.

This entry was published on March 15, 2012 at 10:34 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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