by George Freek I stare at my unmade bed.Outside, a chilling breezerustles the dead leaves,as if they were feathers.The moon is a ball of lead.I gaze at distant stars,lost in the infinite sky,as if they hadnowhere to abide.A torn shirt, hanging froma tree, waves in the breeze,like an abandoned flag,now…
by Bleuzette LaFeir One. Two. Three. Begin: My first breath is thin air. Elevated. Seventy-five-hundred feet. The desert and the mountains. The light? Brilliant, harsh even, yet buffered through creamy cloth. Thinned further by slips of silver smoke that layer through the living room. Thick, earthy scents of meat wave…