The Fairy
she blew in after the lunch bells had faded, Sunday, round two in the afternoon, beautiful in her pale whirl, dancing and floating between aisles like some mad angel in the vortex air of the slow train rumbling toward London. suspended there, afloat in the rattle and sway of the rails, she drifted into the
The Priesthood
the room, this dormitory cist, one bed like a slab they forgot to bury me in, two chairs that nobody sits on, and a corner window that stares out at nothing. solitude, the old whore, she climbs in bed with you every night, whispers the same tired shit in your ear until you almost believe