before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
keep their eyes open twice, listen to shadows, the way a wine bottle clinks against granite, enjoy the blue and red rhythm of the
I spend my days at the farmhouse. Always the sound of cows; at night, the dreams of cows. Their paths through the grass, the
From Paris to Madrid is a winding coil of train tracks and engines, the much machineried world etched into hillside and valley. Subway clatter
