The door opens. The temperature drops. by Emma Bovill
after Bon Iver You hold a book in your hands: oven-baked pages. home-stitched spine. handwritten print. You daft songbird, if you didn’t know a sharp confession when you held it, played it yourself, you didn’t deserve one anyway. The door opens. There’s a quartet on my back porch in Maine in March. One violin croons […]
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