There’s Only One Thing I Know To Be True
Funeral homes have terrible coffee.
CliffsNotes for Whitman’s “Song of Myself”
(or, How to Pare Down 52 Stanzas Into One)
Grass. Workmen. Equality. Yawp, yawp, yawp. Boot soles. Any questions?
“This is why you don’t clean your gun in the dark,” I murmured.
A Welcomed Break
The fever pressed itself into his skin, and we lost the notion of sleep.
Her first husband burned the fastest.