What Comes When I’m Beside Myself

You are fingering

flowering threads

of mind of matter

like guitar strings

gently getting me

off like out where

a river walks its

reeds like a wind

woman her touch

your touch a twang


a rushing out

a rushing in

Laurinda Lind has been holing up in northern New York State, keeping close to Canada. She teaches English composition classes and looks stuff up online. Some poetry publications/acceptances have been in Comstock Review, The Cortland Review, Main Street Rag, Off the Coast, and Paterson Literary Review.


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