Agoraphobia
Randall Brown
Once, these were abbey lands, a bubble of birches and monastic buildings, stoned and sloped. The birches with their thin twig fingers reach for what’s no longer there: the men in robes, wandering, waiting to hear, not just for pretend, the calling. Instead the notes of finches, Eve’s oversound, Frost called it. At the window of the guest room, where I’ve hidden myself away for three, four months now, wife and kids flown to the islands, I see their white forms, bent against it, waiting for God to deliver.
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