Winter 1985 • Vol. VII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1985 |


The sour of plums bites my stomach. Nothing I eat seems palatable. All acid this Summer of bitter greens and half-moons trembling. Some claim to have seen the demon I took in, to play shadow theater with me. Nonsense, I say. Small disasters aside, it's been a bad Summer: my life, hungry and cold, the whole season long.

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