Bent over his lap,he was a samurai. Nothing deferred him from his work.The hot sun layers down red lacquer on his neck.The late spring foxtails scratched the soft skinof his lower back where the shirt rode up.On the other sideRead more…
Lace wing disaster
A thousand lacewings caress the bare black skin of the river. Overhead, the last fat cruisers of spring’s rain steam across the ocean of sky toward a crash in the mountains that will exhaust them deliciously and have no name.Read more…
Grinding her teeth
The Goddess of Flowers is grinding her teeth. Softly luminous, tethered to a million fetal pieces of spring She is clenching her fists. Birth pains ~ maybe. And a hatred of the bare, twisted branches she is trying not toRead more…