American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Rebecca Seiferle

So I did not think of you so much as I felt you drifting through my being, in some gesture that held me poised like a hummingbird above the scarlet blossoms of the trumpet vine, I kissed you above the heart, and by above I mean there, not that geometric center, the breastbone that so… Continue reading Rebecca Seiferle

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