Lissa Wolsak

I will not hide my hands

with the forces that produced them

	at stake is

		inescapable speech

	   loneliness of ill-formed time

.a culture tired of its narratives
				unintelligible kneeling...


	ruling    is the phantom of a supper

   color,   glass,   light 		absorb

					the injurious weir

					it is

       go no further than the famous death scenes

The East Village Poetry Web