In the ruins of the earth twelve hundred saints are biding their time—taking alms from the smoke of gray dawns. The tarantula eats the
In the ruins of the earth twelve hundred saints are biding their time—taking alms from the smoke of gray dawns. The tarantula eats the
I keep my distance from the closets, the picture frames, never wanted to know their contents yet thought of them: black and white linens,
Each time I meet with God he is still singing and jealous of the way I’ve learned to speak with my hands. By autumn