City again, long weekend.
Takeaway cups, mounds of mystery debris, surfaces faintly sticky to the touch.
Contrary to what people might think, we don’t all live in igloos in Iceland.
When waywardness leads to words…
That’s her over there. The one with her hands in her lap. Her nails were long and pretty when I knew her…
or Hemingway Fishes for Applause in the Medium Sea
‘Does anybody even read what I write?’ her hands suddenly burst open like an angry flower with the…
Tw: self-harm