( me / via )

Rain in the Wood.

patter of blown twigs
on a car roof
a murder of crows
approaches, misdemeanor-bent

hammer in a bag

rancid pale cerulean
shadereft, as the bone cradle
boils inly, a fool's choice
       to fetch back
   shapes of Feghoot
confinement steel wheelwell

patter of blown twigs
on a car roof
this parking lot
alive with birdsong & traffic mutter

nothing like lyric

Jupiter eats a comet
calmly amidst headstand
my magnum opus mapped out
in merle-colored furlongs
           high summer
   with long simmer
patter on a car roof blown

New Iranian Lego short.

"There is no line, now, if there ever was, between there and here, burning and breathing, their life and our own." —Becca Rose Hall via

"Thanks to the Demotic, we can, mirabile dictu, precisely date his writing to the 24th of August, in the year 394 AD."