Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Naomi Glassman

Miles until Michigan

this year is 1986, the last of the storks have exploded all over like young laughter; I can remember a Joy in Flint from some boys who never had parents but now I know, I know babies come from pain into the air. whitewood November wanted more marble men, and if I had a haypenny for every war story I halfheard, we could weight the eyes of all the boys of Bulge tight shut, like dead eyes should. But now is winter, year of the stork bullet-bitten took a train into Detroit where the veteran's lost his grandson in some snow he is all for coming out from the cold.