Flow, by Jonathan Galassi
Down the path between the apples through the maple grove of suicides then left at the old wall along the wire fence to the brook- bank where narcissus noses into skunk cabbage and hepatica: Call me Apollo, crashing in the underbrush with my arrows, my bow saw and clippers out for your flash of white tail and alert to hack me a path to your lair, to your cult’s den, … Read more