Works and Days
You don’t actually/
Have to tell the truth./
You have to invent it first.
Three Poems by Michael Minassian
I rode in an elevator from street level to penthouse, a honeycombed hive
You Can Taste It
in the shock and roar of a first, unexpected kiss. Or in the blood in your mouth that instant after an accident when you realize you’re still alive. It blows in the wind you feel on the rooftops of a really reckless night of adventure. You hear it […]