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
Paternal Nocturne $14
Woman Sitting in a Café $8
Java Wednesdays $10
Floating Islands $10
