Poetry / November 2009 (Issue 9)


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.

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ISSN 1999-5032
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