Tires against gravel. Wailing. Screeching.
So then came that great, roving kind of silence.
What was laid before him, horrible at night, was even more dreadful in the day
I see the flower and I am not melancholy. I see my shadow but I am not afraid.
She steps onto the lectern. Light static rings outward.
Celebrating Anne Brontë’s 201th birthday
Nope. Not guessing.
Orpheus? Orphan? Please stop…