Joan Colby

Editor back-issues, poetry

Eating Our Words They ought to float Away like cigarette smoke To contaminate someone else’s curtains. But they don’t. They hover over our heads Like filthy haloes. Everything we think Comes under their cloud. How can we disperse them? They suffuse our clothes Like tobacco odors. Turn our fingers The color of dying chrysanthemums. We shout them even louder To…

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