No gods will be born this December eve as we stand shod to knees in snow under hard stars within a black ring of
The man hustles into the room with ripe petunias his mouth partly open he is ready to speak urgent his discourse ripening the man
— assuming fitness — to prepare an expedition to be in the open mid-spring surrounded by stone and snow and wind — provision basics
I had a weakness for strawberries in a cynical age that mocked sweetness. My friends lit cigarettes and chased the fireworks of short skirts.