Page Text
The Weather in the Womb
Autumn is head down in the sink. The trees taste iron and wren droppings. Oh my rustic plectrum! Your music is where the leaf falls.
Where it falls the river hums like a PC.
Take note of the ice on the water trough in the yard and the Eskimo oil from deep sea fish caught by a bear whose coat is a lichen of silver-tipped hair fuzzy as alkanet.
There is a God and he dwells in the perfect horse dung on the bridle path.
Evening is the hardest skin we carry.
70
These pages are not available for preview.
More Information
Find out more information on this title from the publisher.
Existing Subscribers
Sign in with your Exact Editions account for full access.
Subscribe
Subscriptions are available for purchase in our shop.
Institutions
Purchase multi-user, IP-authenticated access for your institution.
No titles available
You have no current subscriptions in your account.
Would you like to explore the titles in our collection?
No collections available
You have no collections in your account.
Would you like to view your available titles?
