by Derek Mong
When the last phone cord unslithers
from a sleeping teen’s fingers,
and all the TV knobs have spun
off into orbits unknown;
when the word tablet can glisten
without beeswax or mason, Continue reading
by Derek Mong
When the last phone cord unslithers
from a sleeping teen’s fingers,
and all the TV knobs have spun
off into orbits unknown;
when the word tablet can glisten
without beeswax or mason, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry