The heart is a broken record, a botched detour, a scallywag, a scab. Mourning does not rescue or provide an exit. The slender apple
Crows zig past a scold of clouds. Winds come and go in frantic bursts. Trees hasten toward the ground, then pleat the sky. All
The paper-skin woman was begging at the corner, or was she asking? Perhaps it was as simple as hope. How many in the cars
