There is no danger like a man who thinks himself God.
I long for the cobblestone streets of Quebec. Only 15 minutes across the river from it, and Nostalgia beats its drum long before the pain arrives; it just knows what comes next.
This is the silo of broken oath. Scream inside, hollowness answers.
The top is a chalk-drawn cloud, the bottom a verdant hill for cows to be free, the middle a man with a pinky ring, gold-thread vest, and I don’t understand one piece.
What is enigma? Simply put, my answer is your question, inverted.
An empty gallery is no place to think on you, and it’s just as well.
Slumped under a mango tree, face pressed against bark printing tribal designs on skin.