by Kevin O’Connor
The farmer had grown black oranges,
some with faces,
others with horns,
but all were bathed in light.
The clouds overhead his field
raced contrapuntally. Continue reading
by Kevin O’Connor
The farmer had grown black oranges,
some with faces,
others with horns,
but all were bathed in light.
The clouds overhead his field
raced contrapuntally. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry