![Bryant Literary Review](/assets/md5images/76f74d20b69b6d7141cdce6fd1c52f74.png)
Abstract
Precise blocks of keys.
He brushes them
and in the ear's inside chamber,
we hear. His fingers white as a baby. Seems the notes
beam across cold deserts-
and hidden sprigs of grass
think to nose their ways
upward, harboring a thin sense
of yellow warmth despite
the presence of ice.
COinS