Tag: News-Stained Poetry Project

"What ails you, tender snail? Is it that now, at the last, I, an anti-saint, still sit like a red stain on a sail?"

In the afterglow peppered skyline, we can't tell the difference between the tumbling cottonwood seeds and suspended embers. We burn our fingers trying to catch the embers but we don't stop.

Deep in the back seat of the dark car, his feet spread wide apart, the thing done that needed to be done made a deep slow breath taste sweet as whiskey. He nudged the little metal window lever forward, ermp. The window was already closed.

Two spent storms rode currents out of Mexico until trapped in a Front Range trough. Down in the deeply punctured flats, twenty thousand black wells waited.