Our poets land in the same soft valley,
brush themselves off and get back into line.
We strain to hear their words like whispers
that will not sustain them in air.
By Anthony Nannetti
The Tea Cup Hills steam up, the mist swirling above endless green. I walk the quiet trails forever thinking of the bodies piling up in ...
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I am a lifelong resident of Philadelphia, PA, currently residing in the Bella Vista section of the city with my wife and two daughters. My poetry has appeared in Guardian Unlimited UK, PhiladelphiaStories, and online at Ygdrasil and Forge Journal.
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