[From black branches overripe persimmons]
From black branches overripe persimmons / drop, sunset skin splitting open to show / their soft-sweet offal, and on cracked mountains / where grapes modestly ripen, old sorrow // is blasted away, like and unlike stone. / The tired, cool wind sweeps down to revive / her. No flood of dark wind, not one, can mow / it all—even here,… Read more →