The knife-cool of the mist that pricks your bare arms, your bare head, your bare heart. No, that is not an oak blackened by the day’s rain. Come home! That is a hand burned beyond salvation.… more
The knife-cool of the mist that pricks your bare arms, your bare head, your bare heart. No, that is not an oak blackened by the day’s rain. Come home! That is a hand burned beyond salvation.… more
