micro-nonfiction
i say float, i guess, because there is an ethereal lifting quality to the term…
a micropoem
Rain hits the car windowwith the sound of a whip.My glasses steam upas my breathing gets heavier.The wheels…
a radial nightmare — the balling in your front seat, where your husband sits when you pick him up for lunch…
tattered locks ofnight like so manyother tomorrows broken against anvils of lust
when no one would take me, there was a single bulb in your window — a beckoning of sorts that i saw through…