← v14n1, Spring 2015Poetry · Volume 14, Number 1
Jean Valentine Was Here
A man told his son
they would stand
shoulder to shoulder
and not be faced.
Sparrows ink both
the boy’s wrists.
Ice forms and falls
on the inside
of this small window.
Some assume the world
will not touch them.
Not one finger.
Whenever you leave
will be too soon.
