Gin Cove Heather McHugh Our grounds are knuckles, needles, degradable ideograms. Granite is lichened to gold graduations; but gold beyond degree has sunk to new September lows, sent stripes across a hundred trunks for one hour only, codes to deepest moss. Out in the open, some deciduousness does brisk business in manifold crosshatch. Were you to be drawn past forest to the shore, you'd read long ...