Tuesday, January 22, 2013

The Pantheon


The sunlight was red and puddled on the soil. She would take her shovel to it once by once, wiping forever the proverbial mud. She looked as well toward an eastern shore, there as some sun did draw. A new poison of ants crossed her hands.


As the antelope might, he cast back, the nose and shoulder, the blue eyes of coal. Six months underground and still no spring.

A Coming of Men

They drew the ring upon the snow, clapping in the cold. With stones they made patterns random only to the eye. What do you think? he said. Her white shoulders told it all in return.


The dry slap of his subsequent dream, the 14th child.

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