portion of the artwork for Chris Garson's poetry

Chris Garson

A gesture like the widening quiet, your hand to the side of your head. I can feel what it will be like to sleep tonight. The trees seem to understand one another, the way they wait with limbs released to touch the evening with leaves. The river is still. No hour for a cigarette. I’m having an idea about your fingers, imagining them inside my mouth.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 42 | Fall 2013