Getting used to it
In a moldering dream, I fitted a woolen sock over the stump of my leg. The two middle fingers of each hand were missing, the knuckles paper-skinned. A presence studied … Continue Reading Getting used to it
Asleep in sway
Refuse in the oceans. God’s things caught in its mire. In a come-lately penance, I think of small atonements, futile fixes. If a poem had power, had sway, or could … Continue Reading Asleep in sway
