Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
Anton Chekhov

    Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over   you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself.  I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elations.
It’s as though I could fly.
Anne Sexton

Read poetry by Jan Marin Tramontano