Summers ago we skirted the low roads in West Virginia where the wear of tires became a human scream as a train whistle caught
We didn’t know it was our question to answer. Now it’s the room we sit in, the way we hold onto things, and
It is the hour when the night curdles— milk poured into a glass of merlot. All the beautiful options of two drinks ago have
Tup, though charming, lacks the poison of F. Bang, though violent, lacks the chuckle. Plow’s too agricultural and stinks of barnyard. Sleep with is,