by Michael Cooney We talked of a single bird, so early that only the shape of her face was visible to my fingers.Not one, but several, were calling. The darkness was too brief.The glass of water was untouched beside the bed.Did we sleep at all on solstice night? Later, hours later,…
By Matthew Corsi A survival rate does not exist this morning.The wind levies her threat my God, what a mess.A coral reef of death swarms the sky, veins entwined, a single unit of red plushcreates a landscape of rush. Everywhere, everywhere, it becomesthe unit of fatigue. Life is Done for.