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Now reading
Their Story
They were nearing the end of their story. The fire was dying, like the fire in the story. Each page turned was torn and fed to flames, until word by word the book burned down to an unmade bed of ash. Wet kindling from an orchard of wooden spoons, snow stewing, same old wind on the Gramophone, same old wounds. Turn up the blue dial under the kettle until darkness boils with fables, and mirrors defrost to the quick before fogging with steam, and dreams rattle their armor of stovepipes and ladles. Boots in the corner kick in their sleep. A jacket hangs from a question mark.