A Race

The rumpled folds of the middle of Italy. An undisclosed hour in the night. The thick shutters are locked back against the villa. The big-paned windows, slightly wavy with their slow, liquid sink through time, invite the racing wind intoRead more…

On Fire

I wonder if they pack the wicker ribs of the burning man with Persephone’s gems, sweet, sweating, burning, bursting as the fire comes. Like even the black tarmack does when Pele’s blood creeps, unstoppable intensity, to the sea. Everything isRead more…