In her hand the knife, brisk, brilliant as moon-claw, …
Dave Smith
At the drycleaners I stand in line, my feet …
Here they stood, whom the Kecoughtan first believed …
The sun frets, a fat wafer falling like a trap of failed mesh. …
Nobody knows exactly when it fell off the map …
It was not kindness, but I was only buckle-high in the door. …
There was a fire in the night. …
He can only drink tea now, screwed and filed. …
At dawn wind out of the north, hailflecks, pebbly …