By David Kowalczyk

This word lives

in a house made of shells.

It wears bouquets of

Lilies of the Valley

behind its ears.

Its eyes were stolen

from an Apollonian dream.


This word makes you feel

like you are at a party

and suddenly you ascend

into the sky and the whole

world begins to kiss you.


David Kowalczyk lives and writes in Oakfield, New York. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred journals and magazines, including Taj Mahal Review, California Quarterly, Istanbul Literary Review and Maryland Review. He has taught English in Changwon, South Korea and San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, as well as at Arizona State University.  He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.

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