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
from a line by John Sibley Williams Father’s fist still hurts from Sister’s face. This makes me weak like poison in the blood. The
Like riding a rusty whetstone: you pedal fast, the round stone chirring in frayed summer heat. Then, when you slide your thumb along the
My fear is a flight pattern. It circles and rides the updrafts. I want these stars, all they swallow along the valley: the firs,