A poem by Rebecca Bird

  Progression   I from the bedroom, he sees a brigade of snow V through a streetlamp’s mottled brights, a cheap party moon that hangs in the streamers and calls it winter.  Warm in a marriage bed, blankets clamouring like ancient choirs, he thinks of cinnamon drinks, white-capped cars, IV and not of the boy he saw today in the market. A young lad, pencilled … Continue reading A poem by Rebecca Bird