Kevin Shea: poems

Editor back-issues, poetry

our grave hearts crave in the dead night old arms of night have taken our city abreast our nameless faceless city sweating/stinking a broken-down mosaic red rotting brick/dilapidated alleys sheltering dark looms drain pipes drip hot fire-escapes uproot themselves from failing architecture   music falls onto the street from open windows a morose violin wheezes out adolescent/untrained notes lungs of…

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