Tag: Micro Poetry
Warmest French Bread
I am the River Moldau collecting beneath crossed ankles. I am the sideways push to get out from your path. I am you, stained grey-air ash. I am warmest French bread and condensation on the plate. Me and the droplets waiting for spreadable Everything’s Better Butter.
Key click and key click And decline with surety this and the next also “Could these pieces be any more hollow?” “These aren’t writers. These are twenty-something-aged children” So the poems and the flash fiction and the creative nonfiction are sophomoric So I begin hating my job as an editor This publication is small so…