Down where fingershold a windscourged turbulence,lurid and buriedin the fractures, your mountain graceblisters like iron smelted, and the mosaic of youreyes light all over.Wrapped in cold teardrops,below the grit of exiled scents, at your peak I feel astronomical, like Asimov’s balloons risingthrough a diaphanous fog. George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in […]
Tea House: Interviews, Commentary, Reviews, Poetry & Prose