By E. Kristin Anderson
Dear God, make me a bird. So I could fly far.
Far far away from here. –Jenny, Forrest Gump
I draw on these sounds for
some sense of reality—windows
are glass and I see my slack-jawed
reflection there.
I flick through albums, imagine
fingers on cardboard jackets,
lace gloves that must be removed
to handle these tomes.
What is a book if not a vehicle
for life? Americans lay in the street
and look for meaning in the clouds. Continue reading
