The Sun Sets, Input Not Detected | Poetry

Greg Nissan

The guide exits the square as anyone would, drawn by dusk to the edges of rivers a pulse erupts, parade of intervals we could fill pointing to beer drinkers or the mayflies but either way to sound a space for our recurrence, where the promise of the night and the night coincide tomorrow, if you’ll join us. I won’t deny I wrote alone I am a cold metal feather. I...

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