Misplaced beside two lane highways are bellies of elk whose blood gallops off into the tall grass, like a metastatic boundary.
The union charmed like a prized but forgotten bottle from Alsace- the good stuff. A tautological exhumation of a lamentable collapse.
There were pines on the hill there. Beneath them beds of dried Titian needles. And then there were the endless hands caressing technology, lights blinking back the world in two dimensions.
Imitation bone handled pen knives scratch the dome of rocky blackness above as a song squirts into the silence “Tonight, you’re mine completely…”
by Hank Cherry
