Ancient boats have always wept and the sea
given a leaf, rows as if some tree
is still tracing the shoreline, waves
lifted higher, higher, till dead. Everywhere
and the young girl on the swing
is kissing someone—her [ . . . ]
You are viewing a work from the archives of the Dirty Napkin. What you are seeing is only the beginning of this work. Full access to the archives is only available to our subscribers. If you are a subscriber, log in to remove this restriction. If you are not a subscriber, please consider becoming a subscriber today.