by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
Because Sleep By A.J. Huffman lingers in corners of eyes, too easily lost in a blink or breath of ceiling fan. I hold mine, force muscles to feign memories of frozen simulation, make a wish, and wait for it or me to fall. ————————————————————————— Dialogue of Potential Poetics I had…