The breakwater, pines,
small waves: no trace of the blood
spilt. I’m here daily.
Rosemarie Waldrop’s
ambivalence is my guide, her
ghost hovers like the
gulls. I worried a-
about capture, she writes, in wars
nobody hears of.
The breakwater, pines,
small waves: no trace of the blood
spilt. I’m here daily.
Rosemarie Waldrop’s
ambivalence is my guide, her
ghost hovers like the
gulls. I worried a-
about capture, she writes, in wars
nobody hears of.