Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Tag Archive for ‘Ann Harding Woodworth’

Reveille

If you pick up the horn and put it to your lips, it will sound, as surely as snow melts and winter moons wax before they wane, or vice-versa.   Which comes first: December or January? the mouth or the lips? Sound defines the air, and air the sound, as warmth reveals the meaning of chills.   Here is the horn, aching to wake, to breathe, to make a noise […]

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