perhaps the brief hour

…that brief sweet hour when the fury of intrigue waits…

Prairie Snow

The first faint years of us gather on the hillside…

“His shoes just don’t fit right anymore.”

I need a wire harness for my neck and all things blown akimbo…

a song about a boy whose first act of love was a broken window…

Each morning in the blackness I hear Bella…

In a blizzard, when a firetruck whinnies away like a spooked horse…

My mother would not have it so.