Archives: Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Milk From a Bucket

Once I ate cites whole every step a rending tear, tight jaws around fabric of flesh a whited glare sluicing strangers’ faces dry of all but haste the every flavor quick forgotten, ground to ash harvests of cabbage grown from small seed watered all the dry summer only to be hacked from October mud throat-slit

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The River Through The Trees

April showers, they say. It had not stopped raining since December. It might slack off  some, drop to a drizzle, but then it would start back up stronger than ever. The ground was all thick mud where it wasn’t standing water, the trees bending with the weight of their swollen branches.  I figured Pa was all right

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