Category: Spring 2018

Cu Chulainn, the summer disfigures me. When the soil swells with that impossible heat and the air clings to my alveoli and sticks you collect to, as some residue, some form of subtle irritation lining my pores and blossoming
It’s north a bit, the mountains brown and pink behind it. The dirt, the scrub brush, all things dry and ready, smell like tinder. Like an unlit match. Things creak out here that you can’t see. Call out across
Beauty has no jurisdiction in the sleepwalking morning. Creaking joints and eyes not awoken from slumber quite yet brave the day, unarmed and unassuming the sun tickles the newborn sky until it’s ruddy. A new day blushes and begins.

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