This is an end-of-the-world kind of love. You know, a grab-onto-something-because- the whole-place-is-coming-down sort of situation. When all of the volcanoes erupt at the
The paint had come off the sign in a half-sinister, half-admirable way, as if to say I have given up on warnings. No better
We talked out our blues to the dark, backs to a log, seated on dirt the summer’d dried out. Before us the trees like