The Fence
it was a big bastard of a project the first time I saw the house, the kind of dumb hope you buy when you still believe in forever. the front fence — cast iron, 1940s, rising off its brick columns like it owned the street. proud. solid. untouched by the rot that had taken everything
Solstice
What brittle, keening wind is this that stings our ears and dulls the fingers? The coachman of the foulest season whose kiss lingers on bloodless, frigid lips. We’ll soon be warmed by your celestial caress that will cause to pivot the great, grand chart that is infinity and space and all things vast and misunderstood.