for Billy Reed
Death is a dream. It
is a wake.
I find myself this
morning
thinking of you. You
once were
and now are not.
This is hard.
Death is dreamed,
even awake.
This is hard, too.
A Magazine Of Fiction And Poetry
for Billy Reed
Death is a dream. It
is a wake.
I find myself this
morning
thinking of you. You
once were
and now are not.
This is hard.
Death is dreamed,
even awake.
This is hard, too.