Poetry by Sandra Yannone
EVIDENCE OF THE PREPOSTEROUS IMPOSSIBLE
Nothing moves in the breeze so exquisitely as that
which I imagine untangling in my fingers.
Look at the willow, her head of hair turned to gold
before she gives herself over to another season.
How often have I stared through the kitchen’s glass,
raked the cracked pane just to simulate my hand’s
desired nose dive into the full undertow of her?
Years ago, a poet sat stupefied mid-career in front of my poems
finally breaking down after ...