I know enough to know it’s not spring until I see the snowfence coming down. Today, between the highway and the lake orange-vested men
The morning’s arm of light sweeps the table of painted knights & china & papers, sending everything that isn’t you or I to the
You have choices, all kinds of arson to commit. I mean, you’ve gotta burn the old for the new to grow, and I want
i. The nautilus goes ‘round. I am not inside the violet’s reclining head. ii. A tied blue bed. This may be how Poe slept.