Love Poem

What would pick through our shadows would tear them, too, 
were we to give it time enough and reason.

We will, it will—the rest won't be history.
How would you like to go for a walk with me?

More by Graham Foust

Time I’m Not Here

All day on all my days,
the lives I’m not to process wash in;

anxieties lullaby on
and quite like to be gotten among;

but now—and now—one old,
abundant flower just screws up the room.

Star Turn

That the deepest wound is the least unique
surprises nobody but the living.
Secretly, and with what feels like good reason,
we’re the pain the people we love
put the people they no longer love in.