This poem is taken from Stand 248, 23(4) December 2025 - February 2026.
Little Red
No rose is more red than the wolf’s throat inside.
His tongue speckles as he draws the snow inside.
Snow has tailed the pines. He has been long alone,
but bears a shadow of the women he knows inside.
Like the old bird in her cabin. Ever since he rolled
...
His tongue speckles as he draws the snow inside.
Snow has tailed the pines. He has been long alone,
but bears a shadow of the women he knows inside.
Like the old bird in her cabin. Ever since he rolled
...
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