BETSY JOHNSON-MILLER
solstice the solid ice now like a table set for an eagle feast: fish guts pulled from one quick slit made by the thinnest knife * entirely (if briefly) how light the raw day is. how patiently we must wait for the water to bring our rocks dead wood * the thing that whispers to the feathers on a finch I do not know. the sun’s the same. the light is not. o yellow grow
72 | Raleigh Review
