A doll hangs from the claw of some quarter machine that shimmers and leers at you; it chokes the cotton from brown paws in the vitrine of childish hopes of the carnage of kids and crowns or the odds
Category: Fall 2017
14 February 1918South of Rostov-on-the-Don, Ukraine The sky hung heavy over the steppe. It pressed through the man’s coat, and his horse shivered with each gust of the frozen wind. Blowing snow stung his face and blinded him.
When my hollow present blows the dying embers in the heart grate, fond childish cinders glow up; the frozen black memory melts past colors, a sparkle of rainbow recollections. As I walk up on our trodden pavement I see
You take me into muted wilderness and bid me to listen to your quiet trickle— through the rooted trees I lie in a thicket and you whisper in my ear to join you. I wade into your embrace, and
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