It’s a wonder that anyone sleeps through this throb of crickets. In the crook of night, they pulse, shrill with discarded woes: last week’s
Night drives to the lakefront, just Tommy and me. Parked before the breaker stones we’d spark a bowl of dope and find a limestone
Hellflowers. Hellflowers, shatter me. One-eyed like God, the great Cyclops, and that yellow glaring, glaring. Every jagged edge of it spearing. Who asked if