In every type of story, someone is always asking— Is it winter or will it ever be spring; will you come to me as a condition of weather, or at last find me beautiful because all the forests are gone? Coming back to the city, we passed a deer splayed open on the edge of the highway, its limbs beginning to stiffen in the dust and heat. What would it be like to wake in the after- life, and find ourselves positioned as images in a zoetrope? The cylinder spins; as one looks through the slits, the figures move and blur, always and never the same.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
