Nance Van Winckel
Tell Me How Long I'm Supposed to Stand with the Body
A brook. A bone.
The two short ways
we never went.
The little poet has read
his insipid little poem
to spring, and now he's done
so we guess it's summer
and okay to take a sip as the jug
goes 'round, the poison's
sublime, hailing as it does
from the mountain, riding
the big agates down.




