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by Anna Yin
On our bed
we lie like flatfish.
Outside, stars grow old.
A white cocoon
casts its image on the river.
In sparse shadows
a willow dangles.
Along the thorn fences
raspberries bleed,
They remember -
once being the fire
drawing the moth
flapping its wings
to flames. Editors' note: Read "A Cup of Fine Tea: Anna Yin's "Raspberries"" here. |