“where I fold and unfold my left arm into November, my hair into my sister, where the black-gloved woman plays my heart like a crumpled violin, where I stand creased and lusting for paper, where I have no more dead… — Sabrina Orah Mark Copy Share Image
“where I fold and unfold my left arm into November, my hair into my sister, where the black-gloved woman plays my heart like a… — Sabrina Orah Mark Copy Share Image
“The prose poem for me becomes a kind of chamber with no way out… a kind of hunt, because what is hunt but a… — Sabrina Orah Mark Copy Share Image
