Your two sadnesses are nostrils collecting foreign pollens.
Even the great pugilists were worried about each of their knuckles.
I cry alone into the wool. The summers here are intolerably
warm, just right. My tears are like hacksaws who have misplaced
The great distance is a subject that’s been covered. I still
want to talk about it though. Nobody minds. The great distance is
like a person who attempts to fly, and sadly does. So that when we
are in love we accept the wingspan between us.
My name is Greg Zorko. I like poetry, fiction, history and basketball. Some of my work has appeared in NANO Fiction, Busk, Squawk Back, and TheNewerYork. I have some work forthcoming in Thunderclap Press and Emerge Literary Journal. I live in upstate New York.