William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Word for Word

Fifty-seven degrees. A steady rain. Imagine reading such details in an arid, treeless future and thinking they could not possibly be true. We went to the falls. Upon entering the forest, we — Falls? What falls? Forest? Impossible. A hoax — a hoax! a hoax! a hoax! a hoax!

Stone, papyrus, books, electronic files — and these, our very own bones.

September 27, 2021


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Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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