Febrile, it is a wraith pecking like a pair of doves, creaky as the lone Antarctic ice sheet, 3 P.M. sun slanted down dog-tired
I’ll scrub reality’s grubby paws with anti-bacterial soap, spray its t-shirt with stain remover and toss it in with the whites, hose down its
My favorites were the first to go: verisimilitude, Constantinople, crickets. Then went, plucked from me, words I rarely needed; but they were beautiful, nonetheless: