This poem is taken from Stand 224, 17(4) December 2019 - February 2020.
Poem
The Unofficial History of the Forests
I think even our vermillion bird tensed on the last branch
of the ginkgo as she landed. By the roads to the East our black
yawn of a lagoon unfurls; in a tear in the morning she slipped out,
sclera of the sky caliginous like unused porcelain. On the ranch,
...
I think even our vermillion bird tensed on the last branch
of the ginkgo as she landed. By the roads to the East our black
yawn of a lagoon unfurls; in a tear in the morning she slipped out,
sclera of the sky caliginous like unused porcelain. On the ranch,
...
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