I stood at the edge of a cliff. It wasn’t a cartoon cliff, no 90 degree drop into oblivion. It was a sloping grade that trees had proven incapable of grabbing onto, and from my point of view, one step onto that grade would be a terrible tumble to the inevitable drop beyond. When … Continue reading The Cliff – a comedy
he bull frogs in the bog sound their tubas Echoing off dead trees like tooth picks in the porridge The partial moon pours ghostly light from her endless urn It paints each thing with histories, unremembered
"Is he one of them, one of those? All blood looks brown in the moonlight."