Contributions by Bob Watts

Issue 17 | Summer 2015

Letters to Baltimore

By | Poetry

Our father, who aren’t in Baltimore anymore or anywhere so far as I can tell                                no sight of you no sound                                not in the grass and scarred red clay, not in the woods where trees fall to another’s hand or stand self-shadowed, not in garden given back to morning glory cocklebur                     wild wind-dropped seeds I. …