Dry, peeling skin a hybrid. A long braid. The screen is full of voices. Spring is at an end.
What is law to such a man? The gun he places against the temple of the sheriff is him. It is his temple too.
Fiction offers the illusion of characters moving through time. In poetry, everything happens in an instant.
Swinging from their passionate cord for an hour or three, they would wind their slippery selves around the other’s torso....
Don’t even start him on the subject of germs. Or the hidden life of soil.
