Small, seven-years-old, chewed fingernails dug in, baby fat of thighs pressed into thick raised bark, I scrambled up to a crux. There in the
Small, seven-years-old, chewed fingernails dug in, baby fat of thighs pressed into thick raised bark, I scrambled up to a crux. There in the
Like scarves that have run and bled all down the beach, rows of them under the violent sun where the dog noses its way
Stinging over and over like the miracle of loaves and fishes, they snarl out of their aerodrome, hell’s own angels with little venom sacs.