My grandmother only calls me to complain about deer and their incomplete bodies. Her backyard gutters with fog, so they bother her piecemeal. On monday she finds antlers stitched into moss and forsythia. Or on…
Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
My grandmother only calls me to complain about deer and their incomplete bodies. Her backyard gutters with fog, so they bother her piecemeal. On monday she finds antlers stitched into moss and forsythia. Or on…