Photography.
montreal writes
I push the ocular lenses into my tear ducts until I hear a faint click.
In a bar where a flickering cocktail sign lends respite to weary travellers, a man sits and he watches his world burn.
Poem.
Josh wants nothing to do with my idea of digging up half the back lawn.
Tendrils of purple vine, voices floating on temperate air—Findlay park, empty in the cold morning dew, was now brimming in the warm embrace of midday.
Poem.
Siobhan already made two appearances in the parlour room to pick up the extension that morning.
From the never-ending, dry landscape rose twenty trees in my field of vision.
Poem
