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Quest

by Jessica P. Wick on Mar 15, 2011 in Poetry | 0 comments

By Jessica P. Wick I thought I knew how it should be done: I’d go by gloaming when the moon is milk down to the ivy where the wood is rotted and three bridges are clotted in spider silk. I’d say, O, you strong-man, you: with your forked-leaf, dark-leaf, your strangle-vine, your leaves...